The Distant Summer
The bell tower is silent. It has been silent for three days. You are sitting on the cold stone steps of the cathedral, your back against the rough brickwork. The city smells of wet wool and old dust. You are twelve years old. Your name is not important here. Only your hands are. They are stained with soot and blood. You hold a small object in your left palm. It is a glass sphere. It is blue. It...
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