The Pale Garden
The bell did not ring; it exploded. It was a sound that had no business existing in the hallowed, dust-moted silence of the Whitmore Archive, a deep and resonant shriek that seemed to tear the very fabric of the air, shattering the stillness with a violence that made the dust in the beams of afternoon light dance in frantic, terrified spirals. The great brass bell, the one that had stood in the...
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