Every Friday at noon, the old Methodist bell downtown tolled eleven times, never twelve. I counted with my hand on the table like a child saying grace. It bothered me in a small, particular way—as if the day were short one beat.
I took the long walk after lunch and stood under the brick tower as the pigeons shuffled like deacons on the ledge. The bronze looked tired but respectful. I ran my fingers over names carved in the cornerstone, and there—a twelfth notch, shallow and half hidden under a line of weather…