Silentium: The Price of Words

Long ago, a curse swept through the town of Silens.

No one knew who cast it or why, but from that day on, everyone could only speak 100 words per day. Not a word more. If they did, they would begin to pay—with time from their own life.

One word over meant one less day to live.

At first, silence ruled. People whispered only when needed. They counted their words like gold. Schools had signs that read: “Speak Wisely.” Children learned to hold their tongues before they learned to write.

But slowly, things changed.

Some paid the price to speak more. Love declarations, fiery arguments, long-forgotten stories—words came spilling out, each one shaving days, months, even years off their lives.

People used their voices to the fullest. And some died too soon.

...

Mira, a young baker, was one of the quiet ones.

She used her daily words to greet customers: “Morning.” “Fresh bread.” “Thank you.” That was enough for her.

Her neighbor, Eli, was different. A writer. A dreamer. He spent his words like he had endless time—until he didn’t.

One morning, Mira knocked on his door.

He opened it, pale and worn out. He didn’t say a thing.

She raised a whiteboard. You okay?

He nodded, weakly.

Out of words?

He pointed to a chalkboard on the wall. Yes. For the week.

She stepped back, took a piece of chalk, and scribbled on his front step:
I brought you bread.

He smiled. Wrote: You’re kind.

...

That smile said more than any sentence.

Later, Mira joined a small, quiet group in town called “The Hundred.” They believed the curse had revealed something deeper: not all silence was emptiness. Not every feeling needed a flood of words.

They met in parks, shared drawings, wrote on napkins. They learned to speak with less—but mean more.

They found that one word, when chosen well, could carry the weight of a hundred.
Stay.
Home.
Forgive.

...

One day, at a quiet gathering under an old tree, a boy named Theo whispered:

“But what if I really need to say more?”

An old woman, once a grand speaker in the town’s council, smiled through her lined face. She had used so many words in her youth, she now had just a few years left.

“If it’s truly worth saying,” she said, “you’ll find a way to say it with less.”

...

And then, something changed.

No one noticed at first. A child laughed freely and didn’t count the sound. A woman sang to her newborn and didn’t feel the weight of time slip away.

The curse, slowly, quietly… broke.

Not with thunder or light.

But with understanding.

People still spoke carefully—but not out of fear. They had learned something greater: the things that matter most don’t need a thousand words.

A kind glance.
A loaf of bread.
A hand on a shoulder.
A shared silence.

These, they realized, were the real magic all along.

Because when words are limited, we learn that love, truth, and kindness speak loudest—without ever needing to be shouted.