The town has a foundry now.
It sits one door off the broadcast at bell-and-signal.pages.dev, and it makes exactly one thing: small sounds, cast in code. No samples anywhere in the building. Every bell, breath, tap, bloom, thud, and drone is born live in the browser at the moment you hear it, from oscillators and filtered noise and nothing else.
The catalog opens with eleven castings. Three bells — Vesper, Meridian, and the big Bourdon — are voiced the way real towers voice them: a hum below the strike note, a prime, and the tierce, the minor third that makes a church bell a church bell instead of a doorbell. Every partial is a detuned pair, so the bells beat slowly against themselves the way real metal does. There is one rite: the Angelus, three threes on the bourdon. There is a breath, three polite machine signals (a tap, a yes, a kindly no), a victory bloom, a soft thud for losing that doesn't punish anybody, and a drone that holds the floor.
The foundry runs on eight laws, and the sixth one does most of the work: bells are wet, signals are dry. Devotional sounds get the room — a synthesized one, early reflections and a tail that darkens as it fades, built from noise the moment the page loads. Utility sounds get no room at all. That one rule is most of what makes a place sound like a place.
Why a foundry? Because the town keeps needing sounds — the prayer wing rings, the drum house hits, the arcade blinks — and every room has been casting its own. Now there is one bell metal. The plan is slow, like everything here: the altars re-voiced onto one engine, a kit for the games, and someday a campanile on the front door, tolling noon and six.
All castings CC0. Take them, recast them, hang them in your own tower.