This image makes me think of an Elizabethan princess. A poet, I think, locked in a lonely tower. The woman has no voice.
But she has the bells.
Each time she sounds them, they are deafening, and yet, though she’s surrounded by people, no one can hear.
We’ve just come to a turning point: Her last bit of hope has fallen with her resolve, the rain, her tears. Dark night of the soul, indeed.
In traditional tales, at this moment, in walks a prince with a key.
I’m not much for writing tradition. I’d have our character on the tower ledge, face to the wind, cursing the fates that left her here. For the hundredth time in as many days, she thinks of stepping off. But every sunrise is worth seeing, every moment worth living, if only to feel the beat of your heart and taste your own tears, she thinks. She steps inside. As the bell tone fades, she notes a change in the resonance. All that ringing cut a fault in the metal. The mount holding the clapper is loose. By morning, she can have it free. It’s stout enough to splinter wood, or break bone. She’ll have it in hand to greet the guard who brings her morning meal…