The Golden Song
The object sits in the center of the table. It is a bronze bell, small enough to hold in a cupped palm, yet heavy with a gravity that seems to pull the air down around it. You have seen it for forty years. You have cataloged it. You have written three monographs on its provenance, its metallurgical composition, and the acoustics of its alloy. But you have never rung it. Not once. Not in the...
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