The Wistful Witness
The bell did not ring. It cracked. One moment, the great bronze tongue hung still in the belfry of St. Jude’s, swaying with the ghost of a noon wind. The next, it shattered. A sound like a scream tearing through the fabric of the afternoon. The shards fell in a cascade of molten gold, raining down upon the cobblestones of the square below. People scattered. Horses reared. The air tasted of...
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