The Faded Frequency
The bell is not broken, Elias. It is merely tired. I write this by the light of a tallow candle that has burned down to a stub, the wax pooling on the stone floor in a yellow, greasy lake that smells of rendered fat and old smoke. The wind outside is not wind; it is a physical thing, a grey, shivering beast that presses its face against the single narrow window of the watchtower, rattling the...
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