It is serene and breezy on that day. There is a forecast of rain in the atmosphere that perfumes the valley. Standing where the stones are rightfully claimed by the moss and have suffered through the hands of time, its winds fold low while I see the bell sitting inside the ruins. It feels soft and delicate beneath, as if the wall and the ground are still in a state of recall, trying to memorize what used to stand here.

 

This place, the elders say, is jinxed, but the curse in the lore feels too unreal to be true and applied—a feeble thought. A reminder resonates once the storm sweeps across the village, bringing me to my next question: who was courageous enough to ring it? Centuries have gone by, and the stance of the bell remains unchanged. No one who goes near the bell wishes to stray away, as it echoes a jinx that is ever interfering. That peculiar invocation resonates with monaural power and synchronous music.

 

Resembling that of a black hole eating up a universe—best described as “winding echoes”—the bell is stellar and violent, and the village, grim and dark. Letting go of a grunt, I determinedly take a step further. It feels as if the world somewhere around me has altered and changed, angered. Wildflowers beg to differ, forming deep power around the statue of a face, but the bell casts a shadow over everything and has a perennial similarity.

 

I kneel beside it, my fingers brushing the cool metal. This feels off; it is too cold for the warmth of the day, an echo from some other age. My hands shiver as my breath shortens. The stories all come back to me. I remember how the legend goes: the bell is said to wake up.