THE LAST HOUR OF SEVEN BELLS
The Letters
The package arrived on a Tuesday.
Nora found it on her doorstep, wrapped in brown paper, sealed with packing tape. No return address. No postmark. Just her name, written in handwriting she didn’t recognize.
She carried it inside.
She set it on the kitchen table.
She stared at it.
The package was small, about the size of a shoebox, light in her hands. She shook it gently. Something shifted inside. Paper. Lots of paper.
She opened it.
Inside were letters.
Dozens of them. Hundreds. Stacked in neat piles, bound with rubber bands, organized by date.
The first letter was dated fifteen years ago. Three days after Lena’s disappearance.
Dear Nora,
I don’t know if I’ll ever send this. I don’t know if I’ll ever have the courage. But I need to write it. I need to say it. I need to put it somewhere other than my head.
I was there that night. At the cabin. With Lena. I loved her. I love her still. I will always love her.
I’m sorry.
— Miles
Nora read the letter three times.
Then she read it again.
Her hands were shaking.
The next letter was dated a week later.
Dear Nora,
I went back to the cabin today. I don’t know why. I thought I might find something. A clue. A sign. A reason.
I found nothing.
The place is empty. The police have been there. They took everything. There’s nothing left but dust and shadows and the memory of her voice.
I hear it sometimes. At night. When I can’t sleep. She’s calling my name. She’s calling your name. She’s calling for help.
I can’t save her.
I couldn’t save her.
I’m sorry.
The letters continued.
Week after week. Month after month. Year after year.
Miles had been writing to her for fifteen years.
He had never sent a single one.
Nora read through them all, sitting at her kitchen table, the sun setting outside the window, the shadows growing long.
She read about his guilt. His grief. His love for Lena. His hatred for the man who killed her. His obsession with finding the truth.
She read about his doubts. His fears. His regrets. His hopes.
She read about his decision to become the Bellman.
Dear Nora,
I’ve decided to do something. I don’t know if it’s right. I don’t know if it’s wrong. I only know that I can’t sit here anymore. I can’t watch you destroy yourself. I can’t watch you carry this weight alone.
I’m going to make you remember.
I’m going to make you feel.
I’m going to make you forgive yourself.
Even if it kills me.
The last letter was dated the day before the first bell.
Dear Nora,
Tomorrow, everything changes. Tomorrow, you’ll hate me. Tomorrow, you’ll understand. Tomorrow, you’ll see.
I’m sorry for the pain I’m about to cause. I’m sorry for the lives I’m about to take. I’m sorry for the person I’m about to become.
But I’m not sorry for loving you. I’m not sorry for loving Lena. I’m not sorry for trying to save you both.
Forgive me.
— Miles
Nora set the letter down.
The room was dark.
The sun had set.
The shadows had swallowed the light.
She sat in the silence, surrounded by fifteen years of letters, fifteen years of guilt, fifteen years of love.
She picked up the phone.
She dialed.
Miles answered on the first ring.
“Nora?”
“I got your letters.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you send them?”
“Because I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid you wouldn’t write back.”
She was silent for a long moment.
The darkness pressed against the windows.
The weight of the letters pressed against her chest.
“I’m writing back now,” she said.
“What are you saying?”
She closed her eyes.
“I forgive you.”