The Faded Frontier
The glass bell sits on the counter. It is not a bell. It is a vessel. It holds a sound that does not end. You know this. You have known it since the morning the frost started to creep across the floorboards, a slow, white tide that swallowed the baseboards of your shop. The shop is small. The walls are close. The air is thick with the smell of dust and old varnish. You are the last one...
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