The library's silence was a canvas, and the soft hum of the data discs as they came to life was the brushstroke of history painting its tale. Elara, with the tribe's elder, Rohen, at her side, delved into the cryptic symbols that flickered across the screens.

Rohen, his eyes a testament to the wisdom of years and the sorrow of loss, guided Elara through the labyrinth of the old language. It was a language of data, of ones and zeroes that held within them the essence of a civilization's triumphs and tribulations.

Together, they pieced together the syntax of this forgotten tongue, each discovery a step closer to understanding. Elara's mind absorbed the patterns, the structure, the very soul of the language, until the data began to sing to her in a chorus of clarity.

The discs were a mosaic of memories, each one a thread in the tapestry of the world before. Elara and Rohen worked tirelessly, their fingers dancing over the keys as they translated data into stories, numbers into images, code into truth.

As the days turned to nights and back again, the library became a place of rebirth, of knowledge unfolding like the petals of a flower greeting the dawn. Elara's heart swelled with each revelation, each piece of the past that was brought to light.

And though the task was monumental, the weight of history heavy upon their shoulders, there was a spark of something indomitable in their spirits. They were the bridge between what was and what could be, the weavers of a narrative that might yet save their world.