Breglio and the Breath of the Silent Bell

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In the Misty Bog, sound had died. Breglio stood at the edge of the swampy grove, where the moss crackled beneath his feet like old paper and the sky was never visible. The fog hung low, heavy as swallowed thoughts. And yet something was there—something calling him. No sound, no voice. Only a pulse in the ground, like the silent beating of a heart no longer heard. His lantern flickered, as if it, too, sensed the direction. "Who calls me?" Breglio murmured. The fog didn't answer, but the ground vibrated again. Deeply. Slowly. Like the breath of a bell. He stepped cautiously into the bog, his gaze lowered, his senses open. The path was barely visible, but Breglio had learned to follow not with his eyes, but with the feeling beneath his skin. Again and again he stopped, listened—and moved on. The land became softer, spongier. Withered stalks poked out of the mud like whispered questions. The world around him lost its contours, becoming gray, formless, as if someone had carefully washed away the image of reality. Hours passed. Perhaps just a single, long thought. And then, as if lifted from the mist, it suddenly stood before him: the chapel. Half-submerged, embraced by time and swamp, it leaned like a debt borne too long. Black stone, entwined in moss, windows like empty eyes. But the strangest thing was the bell tower—crooked but still upright—and within it a bell of bright, almost translucent metal. It swung. Slowly, as if to a forgotten beat. But it remained silent. Breglio shivered. Not from the cold, but from the kind of silence that was not empty, but full. He stepped closer, his feet sinking into the muddy ground, and yet he continued walking. The bell vibrated above him—silent but haunting. And with every swing it made, something inside him was touched. Not a memory, but what lay before: things that were never said. Thoughts that came too late. Feelings that never found their way out. He sat down on the threshold of the chapel, extinguished the lantern, and folded his hands in his lap. The bell remained silent—and yet it spoke. Not with words. With space. First came shadows: memories of missed glances, of tears he hadn't wiped, of goodbyes he hadn't endured. Then came the sentences that had never been said—so clear they almost hurt. "I should have held you." "I was there, but not enough." "Forgive me." Breglio closed his eyes. The silent sound formed waves inside him, lifting to light something that had long lain beneath it. His lantern began to glow again—not because he had lit it, but because something inside him remembered. He stayed there for a while. The chapel breathed, the bell swung. Nothing was louder than this silence. As dawn broke—just a whisper in the mist—Breglio stood up. He took the lantern, now warm in his hand, and bowed to the bell. It hadn't told him anything. But it had listened.