The Pale Bridge
The bell did not ring. It cracked. That was the first thing you noticed, the sound of the great iron tongue of St. Jude’s shattering against the bronze rim, a shriek of metal on metal that tore through the midday silence of the village square. You were standing in the shadow of the clock tower, your back pressed against the cold stone, holding the satchel against your chest. Inside, the coat...
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