The lost words moved in and rearranged the furniture

In the dream I'm sitting in a room where every untranslatable word I've ever failed to carry across has become an object. The Portuguese saudade is a worn armchair, warm from someone else's sitting. The Japanese komorebi is a lace curtain that moves when no window is open. I used to grieve them like losses, but now they just live here, patiently, the way old houses keep the ghost of a hallway that was never built. I think I'm finally learning to share the space instead of guarding the door.