The Faded River
You dream of the bell. It is not a sound. It is a weight. It sits in your chest, cold and iron-hollow, humming with a frequency that shakes the teeth in your skull. You are old. Your hands are maps of veins, dry and brown, trembling with the palsy that took your speech three winters ago. You do not speak now. You only listen. And you remember. The town of Oakhaven is gray. It has always been...
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