The bell hung solemnly on its iron frame, perched just outside the chapel at the corner of the quadrangle, casting its quiet authority over the entire school. It was the kind of bell that demanded attention; everyone recognized its tone immediately, even before the vibrations settled into the stillness.
Every day, it would ring out at precisely the right time, calling students from across the grounds to gather for the mid-day mass followed by lunch afterwards. At the first few notes, we’d hear its echo ricochet off the walls of the campus structures, drift across the manicured lawns, and pass-through open windows into rooms where heads would lift, students would stop mid-word, and teachers would pause their assigned duties.
It was a sound that seemed to belong to the soul of the school itself. In the busyness of morning classes, it would slice through with a familiar warmth, gathering us all as though some invisible thread had suddenly pulled taut.
Even now, I can still hear its resonance, still see its solitary, unassuming stance outside the chapel. In my mind, that bell never stopped ringing, nor did its message fade. It wasn't just a signal to move from one thing to another; it was a grounding moment, a reminder of the steady rhythm of the days we spent within those walls. And each time it rang, it seemed to reinforce a truth—that here, in this place, everything was ordered, that each hour had its purpose, and that, at least within the bounds of Regina Cleri Seminary, we all belonged.
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