The Wistful Witness
The iron bell hung from the oak bough by a chain that had long since rusted into a single, unbreakable link. It was not a bell meant for summoning servants or marking the hour, but a relic of a time when the boundaries between the waking world and the realm of dreams were thin as gossamer. Elias Thorne sat beneath it, his back against the rough bark, his hands resting on his knees. He was a man...
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