The Wistful Skyline
The bell did not ring; it shattered. It was a sound like a bone snapping inside a ribcage, a sharp, metallic shriek that cut through the humid, stagnant air of the cellar and stopped every heart in the room for a beat, then two. Eleanor Fairchild looked up from her work, her hands still stained with the dark, viscous ink of the chisel she had been using to carve the final details into the ivory...
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