It was close to midnight when the first bell rang.
Elise had been at her desk, sorting her father's papers, when the deep, mournful sound seemed to seep into the walls of the inn. It wasn't the clear clang of the church bell in the square—it was older, heavier, as though it came from somewhere beneath the water itself.
She threw on her coat and stepped outside. The fog was thicker than she had ever seen it, curling low over the cobblestones. In the distance, she saw a figure moving—small, barefoot, hair streaming in the mist.
"Maris!" Elise called.
The girl didn't stop. She moved toward the harbor, toward the cliffs. Elise gave chase, her boots slipping on the damp stone. The bell tolled again, each strike vibrating in her bones.
When she reached the cliff's edge, Elias was already there, standing between Maris and the drop. His face was pale, his eyes fixed on the dark water below.
"You hear them now, don't you?" he said to Elise without turning.
And she did.
The bells. Calling.