The Pale Tower
The bell tower of Saint Jude’s did not ring. It had not rung in forty years, not since the last winter when the frost bit deep into the stone and the community below ceased to look upward. Margaret stood alone within the belfry, the air around her still and cold, carrying the faint, metallic scent of iron and old dust. She was not a woman in the way the villagers understood the word. Her skin...
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