The Faded Chronicle
The bell in the steeple did not ring on Sundays anymore. It had been silenced for three years. The bronze tongue hung low, wrapped in heavy canvas, a dead weight against the stone. Elias stood in the square, his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his wool coat. He watched the dust settle. It was a fine, grey powder that coated everything. The cobblestones. The window sills. The faces of the...
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