The Faded Chronicle
The bell in the tower does not ring. It cracks. A fissure splits the bronze lip of the instrument, a jagged wound bleeding silence into the grey morning air. You stand before it, hands still raised, the mallet suspended in mid-air, frozen by the shock of the sound that was not a sound. The dust motes dance in the shaft of light piercing the rotunda. You lower your arms. The mallet falls. It...
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