The Wistful Silence
You hold the bell. It is cold. The iron is heavy in your hands, a dead weight that hums with a low, persistent thrum. You do not know why you are holding it. You do not know why the village is watching. You only know that the silence is too loud. It presses against your eardrums. It sits in the throat of the air. It waits for you to break it. The bell is the last of the Ashworth collection. It...
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