The Wistful Atlas
The bell tower cracked. It did not fall. Not then. A fracture, jagged and white, split the masonry from the belfry to the ground. Dust rained down like grey snow. The town of Oakhaven held its breath. I stood in the square. My hands were shaking. The silence was heavy. It pressed against my eardrums. I had been a judge. For thirty years. I had judged. I had decided. I was certain. I was right....
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