Luna recalls the night she took shelter in a tiny rural chapel after her car slid off a back road near the town of Treddin, Maine. The chapel was dark, the door unlocked, and someone had left a single candle burning on the altar. She wasn't alone. The old iron bell in the tower had been ringing for a hundred years without a rope. She met Elara, a woman who had been waiting there for something she couldn't name—something that came every Christmas Eve at midnight. This is a quiet, snow-buried story about the weight of waiting and the sound of a bell that rings itself.

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