Where the Bells Once Rang

Authors Note:
The full story is finished and will update every Saturday at 7:30PM PST, until the final chapter.
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The wind carried the chimes before it carried the morning.

They rang with a brittle clarity, scattering through the upper eaves of the temple like shards of frozen glass. Each gust teased them into a trembling dance, notes falling in uneven intervals—some low and long, others sharp as whispered secrets. Below, nestled between the arms of sloping pines and lantern-lit paths, the temple courtyard stirred in the first breath of light.

Dew glistened along the carved stone tiles, catching the pale blue haze that hovered before the sun broke through. Birds called from the tiled rooftops—swift, clean cries that sliced across the mountain air. Incense smoke curled like a pale ribbon from the prayer alcoves, too faint to touch, too thick to miss.

Baek Sanwu moved through the forms before the light reached his eyes.

Barefoot on cold stone, his limbs traced practiced arcs through the misty air, each movement flowing into the next with coiled precision. His breath was measured and even, rising and falling with the rhythm of a silent count. His fists opened, twisted, pressed to the ground, then rose again with the slow intention of a tide. Muscles tensed, released. The sleeves of his robe brushed softly against his sides as he pivoted, heel scraping against stone worn smooth by years of use.

He did not count the repetitions. He no longer needed to.

Above him, the bell tower loomed in silhouette—empty, silent. The great bronze bell within had not rung in nearly a decade. Vines crawled up the cracked beams of the tower's legs. Birds no longer nested near it. Sanwu's gaze flickered toward it only once, during the pause between movements. The wind caught his sleeve then, tugging it softly—as if in warning, or invitation, he knew nor.

He lowered his arms and exhaled.

It was the same ritual every morning. Before light. Before speech. Before the chants. He bowed toward the temple's inner sanctum and again to the open mountains, where the mists clung like prayer cloths to the peaks. Then he turned and left the courtyard, stepping lightly around the worn edges of the offering stones.

Inside, the stone corridors were lit only by slits of dawn. The walls were cool to the touch, and the scent of pine ash and candle soot clung to them like old memories.

Sanwu moved quietly past the sleeping quarters. The others were still at rest—only the elder monks rose this early, and even they moved with less urgency than him. He passed the row of bronze bells that lined the southern hallway, all still and polished, their surfaces catching only slivers of amber light. At the far end of the corridor, he hesitated. Just beyond a thick door veiled in crimson cloth, the sealed chamber lay.

He did not glance at it long. Just long enough.

Then he moved on.

Breakfast was taken in silence. The clink of wooden spoons and the soft scrape of bowls were the only sounds in the narrow dining hall. Sanwu sat among the acolytes, eyes lowered, spine straight. He did not taste the rice porridge. He did not notice the warmth of the tea. His gaze drifted toward the open window, where the wind stirred the lantern tassels outside.

The temple had trained the disciples to eat in reflection. To be present. To be grateful.

But Sanwu's thoughts moved elsewhere. They followed the wind's path down the corridor and curled around the forbidden door again.