When the Last Bell Goes Silent in the Snow

Summary

I found the journal tucked behind a stack of cedar shingles in Bennett’s attic, two weeks after I carried the last of my cardboard boxes up the driveway.

There was no name on the cover. Just worn leather, warped by seasons of dry mountain heat and bitter freezes, and a hand-drawn sketch of a white deer wearing four silver bells on a braided red cord.

I sat on the dusty floorboards, the autumn light slanting through the dormer window, and opened to the first page.

Carter took my first bell today, the handwriting read, jagged and thin.