The Ledger
lpha kept a quiet ledger
of everything that had gone wrong.
The bell that cracked in the frost year.
The music in the cathedral
that smeared every note across too much space.
The marketplace that had grown too loud.
The new footpath by the river
that was too long.
She recorded dates for every offense.
Her memory was exact.
Her anger, immaculate.
Each morning the broken bell rang
from the high tower above the square.
Its tone was warped now —
no longer round,
no longer pure.
It wavered as it fell through the air,
as if the sound itself was limping.
It offended her.
It reminded her of a wheel knocked off center —
still turning,
never smoothly.
She called her anger honesty.
Others called it crabiness.
She privately called it integrity.
Someone had to remember what had been damaged.
Someone had to refuse to let it be.
From her window she could see the lower market —
steam from bread ovens,
children darting between stalls,
the jostling dance of people attending to their day.
She rarely watched for long.
The noise felt like an insult
to the precision of her remembering.
It was near dusk
when she noticed the Stranger.
He stood beneath the bell tower,
alone in the cooling square,
listening.
Not grimacing.
Not bracing.
Listening.
She leaned out from her window.
“How can you stand that sound?” she called.
“It’s wrong.”
“Yes,” he said.
She waited.
“Still wrong,” he said.
“And you’re listening to it anyway,” she said.
He looked up at the tower.
"Why do birds fly?"
That answer angered her.
She descended the stairs
as if summoned by her own fury
and confronted him in the square.
She told him everything —
what the bell had once been,
how far the city had fallen,
how negligence and carelessness and forgetting
had piled ruin upon ruin.
She told him about
the music in the Grail Cathedral.
The marketplace that had grown too loud.
The new footpath by the river
that was too long.
She spoke as one speaks
when memory has become a duty.
He did not interrupt.
When she finished,
he asked one question.
“If the bell were repaired tomorrow,” he said,
“who would you still refuse to be?"
She felt his question
as a throb behind her eyes.
“That isn’t the point,” she said.
“Exactly.”
She turned away mid-breath
and returned to her room,
her anger ringing louder
than the broken bell ever had.
Months passed.
Work began on the tower.
The old bell was lowered with ceremony.
The city collected metal.
People donated what they could spare —
tools,
fragments,
ornaments without history.
The foundry fires were stoked
through the night.
She watched all of it
without pleasure.
When the new bell was raised and mounted,
the whole city gathered.
The rope was pulled.
The sound was flawless.
Pure.
Complete.
Perfect.
And somehow —
empty and non-descript.
For the first time in years,
Elpha noticed the sound
beside the bell.
Laughter.
Footsteps.
The soft percussion of eating utensils.
The musical noise
of daily life.
Children were chasing one another
through the crowd.
The baker had burned
the second batch of bread
and everyone was laughing about it.
Someone was singing
badly --
maybe on purpose,
maybe not.
The city
had not been waiting.
The broken bell
had never been the wound.
Her listening
had been.
She searched the crowd
for the Stranger,
but he was gone.
That night
she did not update her ledger.
For the first time,
the column beneath
'what was wrong'
remained empty.
—William Zeitler
2025 December 9
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