Past the vestibule stretched galleries for entries: rooms arranged alphabetically like houses on a street. Each room held a single word, lit with a clear lamp. Above the doorway a small plaque displayed the headword — crisp, lowercased if shy, capitalized if proper, accented if foreign. Some plaques bore variant spellings, like old names that survived in postcards and family bibles. I learned to walk slowly here; the house expected patience.

Contains the preface, a guide on how to use the dictionary, and a key to pronunciation symbols and abbreviations.

Usually written in IPA (International Phonetic Alphabet) or a simplified respelling system.

The headword is the word being defined. It is typically printed in boldface type at the beginning of the entry.

Explains the dictionary’s scope and history.

When I left the Lexicon House, the rain had started again, softly at first. Words tasted less brittle on my tongue. The structure of a dictionary is more than index and definition; it is a living architecture that records, filters, connects, and occasionally lets in new light. It is built to be consulted and contested, to hold the memory of tongues and the promise of tongues yet to be.