The Wild Hunt raced down the hill on their powerful horses, to the place where the bell that was in the wrong story lay in the long grass.
Without a word they smashed the bell, and a dull DONG rang out across the wild wood, followed by a splintering thud.
But smashing it hadn’t mended the tear that leaked greenery down into the story underneath, and let a little jagged void space seep in and lick around the tree roots. A ribbon of vacuum threaded across the riverbank like black stitches.
The broken bell fell through the tear, and then from its own story it could be heard ringing once again.