The Pale Tale
The bell tower stands in the center of the town, a hollow throat of grey stone. It is old. It is broken. You have been coming here for three years. Every night at dusk, you climb the spiral stairs. The stone is cold under your palms. It wears down. Your fingernails chip. The mortar crumbles. You do not care. You are looking for something. Or rather, you are looking for the absence of...
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