The Wistful Mirror
The bell in the tower of St. Jude’s had been silent for three days. It was a heavy, iron thing, older than the parish itself, and its silence was not merely an absence of sound but a presence, a thick, gray fog that settled into the marrow of the town. Elias Thorne stood in the belfry, his hands wrapped around the cold iron of the rope, his knuckles white. He was a man of seventy years, his...
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