the bell-ringer

a tall figure with the rope drawn through both hands. the bell at his feet is the size of a small village. it has never struck the hour — only the in-between, the moment between the third and fourth count, when nothing is supposed to ring.

on clear nights you can sometimes hear the rope creak. if you do, the chime that follows is meant for you. nobody knows whether to answer. it is best to acknowledge it the way one acknowledges a rumor — in silence, and walking on.