The Wistful Witness
The bell tower of St. Jude’s did not ring for the dead, nor for the living, but for the space between them. It stood on the highest hill of Oakhaven, a stone sentinel that had watched the centuries turn like pages in a book no one was reading. I was seven years old when I first heard its voice, a low, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate in my teeth rather than my ears. It was a dream, or...
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