The rain had not stopped for three days.

It fell on the slate roofs of Ashworth. It fell on the cobblestones. It fell on you.

You are a maker of bells.

This is your trade. You know the weight of bronze. You know the temperature of fire. You know the sound of silence before the strike.

You carry the bell.

It is small. It is old. The bronze is green with age. It is worn smooth by hands that are no longer here. You hold it in your left hand. Your right hand holds your hammer.

The road is wet.

You walk through the village. The houses are dark. The windows are shuttered. The air smells of wet stone and decay.

There is a figure by the church door.

It is an old woman.

Her face is hidden by a hood. Her hands are white. They rest on the wooden rail.

She does not speak.

She watches you.

Her eyes are dark. They do not blink.

You continue.

The church is old. It is made of grey stone. The door is open. The darkness inside is deep. It smells of incense and dust.

You enter.

The floor is cold.

You place the bell on the altar.

The bronze catches the light from the single window. It glows. It is a deep, amber color. It looks like liquid gold.

You sit on the pew.

You wait.

Time does not move.

The rain taps on the glass.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A sound comes from the dark.

It is not a voice.

It is a vibration.

It comes from the bell.

The bell is still.

But it hums.

The hum is low. It is in your chest. It is in your teeth.

You stand.

You reach for the bell.

Your hand stops.

The bell moves.

It slides across the altar.

It moves toward you.

Slowly.

Quietly.

You do not breathe.

The bell stops before your feet.

The bronze is warm.

It is hot.

You look up.

The old woman is in the nave.

She is no longer by the door.

She stands in the center of the aisle.

Her hood falls back.

Her face is young.

Her hair is white.

Her eyes are the color of the bronze.

She opens her mouth.

No sound comes out.

She gestures to the bell.

She gestures to you.

She points to her chest.

She points to yours.

You understand.

This is a test.

This is a sacrifice.

You must give it.

You must give the bell.

But the bell is yours.

It was yours before you were born.

It was in your family.

It held the memory of your father. It held the memory of your grandfather.

It is the only thing that connects you to the past.

If you give it, you are alone.

If you keep it, you die.

The woman waits.

The rain falls harder.

The church shakes.

The stones crack.

The roof groans.

The dark is alive.

It breathes.

It watches.

You look at the bell.

You look at the woman.

You look at the door.

The door is closing.

The dark is coming in.

You pick up the bell.

The bronze is heavy.

It is warm.

It is alive.

You feel the pulse in your hand.

It is your pulse.

It is the woman’s pulse.

It is the pulse of the earth.

You realize the truth.

The bell is not a tool.

The bell is a vessel.

It holds the sorrow of the village.

It holds the grief of the years.

It holds the anger.

It holds the fear.

It is full.

It is overflowing.

It is breaking.

The woman is the keeper.

She is tired.

She cannot hold it anymore.

She needs a new vessel.

She needs you.

You are the vessel.

You are the new bell.

The woman smiles.

It is a sad smile.

It is a kind smile.

She steps back.

The dark rushes in.

You run.

You run out of the church.

The rain hits your face.

It is cold.

You run to the square.

The village is empty.

The houses are silent.

The wind howls.

You hold the bell.

The bell is burning.

The bronze is glowing.

The heat is unbearable.

You drop it.

The bell hits the cobblestones.

It does not make a sound.

The light fades.

The bronze turns black.

It is dead.

You are free.

But you are empty.

You feel a hole in your chest.

It is a hollow space.

It is a silence.

You walk home.

Your house is small.

The door is open.

The fire is out.

You sit by the hearth.

The rain stops.

The sky is clear.

The stars are out.

They are bright.

They are cold.

You look at your hands.

They are shaking.

They are empty.

You remember the bell.

You remember the woman.

You remember the heat.

You remember the silence.

You were not the maker.

You were the clay.

You were the mold.

You were the sacrifice.

The village is safe.

The dark is gone.

The rain will not come again.

But you are gone.

You are not dead.

But you are not alive.

You are a shadow.

You are a whisper.

You are a memory.

You sit in the dark.

You wait for the end.

The end is quiet.

The end is gentle.

The end is here.

You close your eyes.

You let go.

The silence takes you.

The silence is kind.

The silence is true.

You are nothing.

You are everything.

You are the bell.

You are the bronze.

You are the sound.

You are the silence.

You are the end.

The light fades.

The story ends.

The rain has stopped.

The village sleeps.

The bell is gone.

You are gone.

The night is deep.

The stars are still.

The world is quiet.

The world is still.

The world is done.

The world is rest.

The world is peace.

The world is home.

The world is you.

The world is me.

The world is us.

The world is all.

The world is nothing.

The world is now.

The world is then.

The world is here.

The world is there.

The world is gone.

The world is back.

The world is new.

The world is old.

The world is true.

The world is false.

The world is real.

The world is dream.

The world is life.

The world is death.

The world is love.

The world is hate.

The world is joy.

The world is pain.

The world is light.

The world is dark.

The world is sound.

The world is silence.

The world is you.

The world is me.

The world is us.

The world is all.

The world is nothing.

The world is now.

The world is then.

The world is here.

The world is there.

The world is gone.

The world is back.

The world is new.

The world is old.

The world is true.

The world is false.

The world is real.

The world is dream.

The world is life.

The world is death.

The world is love.

The world is hate.

The world is joy.

The world is pain.

The world is light.

The world is dark.

The world is sound.

The world is silence.