hospice
Where languages are attended at their end. A long brick hospice divided into sealed glass chambers, each holding a single failing bloom in the soil, the air and the light of the country it came from: Caucasian mountain cold, Amazonian damp, the salt wind of an Atlantic island. A listener sits beside every chamber and writes down each sentence until there are no more. The Wards are clean, quiet and kind. Below them is sub-level three, where Thornweaver keeps the one bloom the Charter ordered burn...
Located in The Architecture of Babel.