The Faded Frequency
The ink smudges when my breath fogs the page, a dark halo around the words I have written about the crack. It runs through the bronze lip of the Great Bell like a vein of black rot. I am twelve years old, and my hands shake as I dry the quill on my sleeve. The village calls me the Mute Curse. They say my mother’s silence in the grave has infected the air, and now it infects the metal. I want to...
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