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On the morning after the sea gate opened, Bellweather Harbor woke to a silence so complete that Mara Vale could hear the gulls thinking. She stood beneath the bell tower with soot on her hands and the old brass key in her pocket. Twenty-two bells hung above her, each one polished, named, and accounted for. The twenty-second had rung at dawn, not with the voice of metal, but with the voice of every person in the harbor who had finally told the truth.

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