Chapter 2 The bell at the harbour

The bell had a weight that Nyra couldn't dismiss, she left it on her kitchen table for three days, its small brass body gleaming whenever sunlight struck the window. Claire returned on the second evening, her coat still damp from weather, and stared at the bell as if it had crawled from the sea itself. "That's it," Claire whispered, "that's the one he meant, he told me, he told us, that if anything happened, the bell would find its way back to you."

Nyra reached out and touched the frayed ribbon,"you mean this is a signal, "Claire shook her head, "more like a summons." The word unsettled Nyra. Summons implied judgment, an expectation she hadn't agreed to. She had carefully built a life after Henry, and yet his presence was now rattling in every corner of her house like wind through a loose windowpane.

On the fourth morning, Nyra decided to see the harbor, she didn't tell Claire until they were halfway down Holloway Lane, their shoes echoing on cobblestones. The air carried the tang of salt and iron, and gulls wheeled overhead with the sharp laughter of creatures that knew too much. The harbor was bustling, fishermen mending nets, merchants shouting over crates of fruit, tourists chasing the illusion of quaintness. But beneath the noise, Nyra felt the hush of something unspoken, she carried the bell wrapped in cloth inside her satchel. Every step felt like part of a script someone else had written. "Where would he be?" she asked Claire, scanning the docks. Claire pointed to the far pier, where an old warehouse leaned tiredly toward the water, "that's where he used to meet people, smugglers, traders, anyone willing to barter. I was there once, long ago." The word smugglers prickled Nyra's skin, Henry had always dabbled at edges, illegal books, forbidden wine, conversations with dangerous men but she had thought it was only mischief, not survival. They walked to the warehouse, its windows were clouded with grime, the doors chained but a sound carried faintly through the cracks, a bell, not brass and gentle like the one in Nyra's bag, but heavier, tolling deep from within.

Claire froze, "that's the harbor bell." Nyra felt the weight in her chest, "then he's here." The side door was ajar, against better judgment, Nyra pushed it open. The smell of saltwater and rust flooded out, mingling with something older, smoke, perhaps, or mildew from years of neglect. Inside, the warehouse was cavernous, with beams like ribs and shadows pooled in every corner. Crates stood stacked like silent guards and in the center, suspended from a crude wooden frame, hung a ship's bell. It swayed gently, though no wind moved inside, beneath it, a man stood with his back to them. His coat was worn, his hair streaked with gray, when he turned, Nyra's breath caught.

Henry.

But not the Henry she remembered from the photograph, his laughter, his unshaken confidence. This Henry looked carved by storms, his eyes darted nervously, as if even the walls might be potential traitors to him. "Nyra," he said, her name fractured on his tongue, her knees nearly buckled. For years, she had prepared herself for news of his death, or worse, silence forever. Now he was here, breathing the same stale air.

"Why the parcels? Why the letters?" she asked, her voice steadier than she felt. Henry glanced at Claire then back at Nyra. "Because I couldn't come straight to you. Too many eyes, too many debts, the bell was the only safe way." Claire folded her arms. "Safe? You have dragged us into your mess. Nyra deserves more than riddles," Henry winced, "I didn't mean," he stopped. "There is no easy way to explain but I have made enemies, the kind who would burn this whole town just to get to me, I had to be careful." They sat on crates that had been turned upside down, the bell above them a silent witness as Henry told them pieces of his story, haltingly, as though each word cost him blood. After he'd left Nyra, he'd joined a group that ran rare artifacts, books, paintings, relics they smuggled across borders. At first, it had seemed noble, rescuing treasures from governments that would bury or destroy them but greed poisoned noble intentions. "Somewhere along the line," Henry confessed, "we stopped rescuing and started stealing. We sold to the highest bidder, no matter who and when I wanted out, they decided I knew too much." Nyra's fists clenched. "So you sent me your confessions, your little clues, thinking what? That I'd help you?" Henry's gaze softened, "I sent them because I couldn't carry them anymore and because part of me hoped you'd still care." The silence that followed was heavier than the tolling of any bell.

Footsteps broke it, at first faint, then louder, boots crunching gravel outside the warehouse, Henry's face drained of colour,"they've found me,"he said, Claire shot to her feet, "Who?" "The men I left behind, they'll search everywhere, If they see you, " the warehouse door groaned open, figures slipped inside, three of them, silhouettes against the daylight. They moved with precision, like men accustomed to hunting. Nyra's pulse hammered, instinct made her clutch the satchel with the small brass bell. It seemed absurd, holding a trinket against danger, but the weight grounded her. Henry hissed, "Stay behind me," the men approached. Their leader, tall and sharp-featured, stopped under the hanging bell. His smile was slow, deliberate, "Henry Mercer," he said. "We've been looking for you," the confrontation blurred into motion. Henry shoved Nyra and Claire toward the back of the warehouse, "Go!" he barked. The men lunged, one grabbed Henry by the collar, another swung a knife that flashed in the dim light. Nyra stumbled, clutching Claire's hand, they darted between crates, heartbeats loud enough to betray them. Behind, metal clanged, the bell struck by accident, its deep voice booming through the space. The sound startled everyone, in that pause, Henry broke free, slamming a crate against the nearest pursuer. "Run!" he shouted.

Nyra and Claire found the back exit, a rusted door that barely hung on its hinges, they shoved it open, spilling into daylight, lungs heaving. Behind them came the crash of struggle, curses, another toll of the bell, then nothing. They walked back up Holloway Lane in silence, their fear hanging between them like smoke. Nyra locked every bolt on her door and then collapsed into a chair, the small brass bell sat on the table, innocent, as though nothing had happened. Claire prowled the kitchen, "we can't stay here. If those men followed us,"they didn't," Nyra said, though she wasn't sure. She rubbed her temples, "but Henry is he alive?" Claire's voice cracked. "I don't know," that night, Nyra dreamed of bells, some deep as thunder, others light as laughter. Each one carried Henry's voice, calling her name from different directions. She woke drenched in sweat, the small bell clutched in her hand though she didn't remember reaching for it.

Morning brought yet another shock, slipped under her door was a single sheet of paper, folded twice, in Henry's handwriting.

It says,

Nyra,

If you're reading this, I got away, but not for long. They won't stop until they silence me, keep the bell. It will matter more than you think, trust Claire and if you see Thomas Gray again, follow him. He knows the rest, no signature, no explanation of how the letter had found her. Nyra stared at the words until they blurred. She felt trapped between relief that Henry still breathed and dread that every moment stretched him closer to death. Claire read over her shoulder, jaw tight, "Thomas Gray, the deliveryman?" "Yes," Nyra said slowly, "he warned me once, maybe he's part of this." Claire's eyes darkened, "Or maybe he's leading you into the same trap."

The sunlight caught the bell on the table once more, casting a small glow, it was to this object, this absurd token, that Henry had tied her fate. She had been drafted into his unfinished story, whether she wanted to be or not. She could run-clear out of Holloway Lane, abandon the letters, the bell, the memories or she could stay-follow the trail Henry left behind her, risk being consumed by his past. Neither choice promised safety, when night fell again, Nyra stood at her window, watching shadows stretch across the lane. Somewhere out there, Henry was in hiding-or fighting for his life, somewhere, Thomas Gray carried answers. The bell in her hand shook, as if it would like to speak and Nyra leaned forward, whispering into the empty room, "If this is a summons, then I'll answer." The sound of her own voice startled her but the decision, once spoken, settled into her bones. Whatever the uninvited guest had brought into her life, whatever danger or memories or Henry himself, she could not shut the door anymore.