The Pale Circus
The bell tower of St. Jude’s had been ringing for three days. The sound was not a ring, but a tear. It split the air in the valley below, a thin, white line that cut through the fog. Elias stood on the edge of the cliff, his fingers wrapped around the iron railing. The metal was cold. It bit into his skin. He did not let go. Below, the village was silent. The houses were dark. The windows were...
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