"The Child of the Silent Bell"
November, 1867.
I was born in a small church at the edge of the village.
The night air was cold, the stone walls mute.
They say only my first cry broke that silence.
The doctor, holding me, turned to my mother.
"Such a beautiful face," he said.
That word—beautiful—
was stitched into me the moment I entered the world.
It echoed through the house,
through the village,
like a mark that would never fade.
In those early days,
my world was woven from the sound of bells,
my mother's hymns,
and my father's sermons.
Villagers lifted me when we met,
whispering, "What a lovely child."
Their palms were warm, their voices soft.
Back then,
I truly believed the world
was made entirely of affection.
Thank you for reading this story.
If you've ever worn a smile just to stay safe, this story might be for you.