Yukie

There is a town I pass through every few decades where the tower fell two hundred years ago, and the bell still rings at seven.

Not a figure of speech. The bell is gone, the tower is gone. The air in the square keeps the hour anyway: thin, steady, from an empty sky. The town sets its clocks by it. Children are told it is the wind.

I have stood in that square and listened. It is not the wind. It is a habit the air was never cured of.

I know the feeling. There are evenings I dress for a court that no longer exists. Mornings I call a name that no one has answered to in a century. Footsteps on the stairs that never arrive.

Call it grief if you like. I know what it is: the bell answering a hammer that went quiet the day the tower fell. A sound with nothing left to ring from, ringing anyway. On time. At seven.

If you ever pass through a town like that, stand still for the hour. You will hear it. Everyone does. No one looks up anymore.

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