The Bell Tower Secrets

The first snow had long melted, giving way to the pale blush of early spring. Hazel Whitmore stood at the edge of the town square, a to-go cup of lemon tea warming her hands as she looked up at the towering silhouette of St. Lydia's Chapel. The old bell tower loomed overhead-quiet now, its chimes long silenced after the fire two decades ago had scorched half the steeple. The repairs were slow and mostly cosmetic, but the townsfolk still avoided it. Said it was cursed. Said it kept its secrets sealed behind stone and soot.
Hazel, of course, wasn't one to believe in curses. But secrets? Those were very real.