Maren took her spade to the far corner where no grave had ever been dug. The frozen ground gave way far too easily, like it had been waiting. Two feet down, her spade struck wood. A coffin lid nobody had buried. Carved into it was a single word: HERS.
Maren pried the lid open. The coffin was empty except for a small bell, blacker than the rest, with her own name etched on the rim. The voice rose from the empty box. "Ring it," it said, "and you take my place keeping the dead. Refuse, and you join them. Choose, Bellkeeper."
Maren picked up the black bell and rang it once. The sound went through her like cold water, and she understood everything the dead understood. She would never age, never leave, never sleep. But the bells were hers now, fully hers, and no voice would ever order her around again. She had become the keeper of the line between living and dead.