The bells of St. Aldwyn's rang long before Phillip reached the church.

They were not the usual Sunday chimes. These rang slowly, each toll drawn out like a breath held too long before release. The road leading to the small stone chapel was crowded with villagers, railway workers, laborers from Shropshire Foundry, widows in black shawls, and children who clung to their mothers without fully understanding why everyone was so quiet.

Phillip dismounted a few paces from the churchyard. Henry climbed down from the carriage beside him, clutching his notebook out of habit but not opening it. No one was taking notes today.

The Duke of Wellington waited near the gate. His posture was straight, but his face showed the weight of sleepless nights. When Phillip approached, the Duke offered only a small, grave nod.

"They have gathered most of the families," the Duke murmured. "Some from villages farther north arrived at dawn."

Phillip looked past him. Fresh soil marked long rectangular plots—temporary graves until the families decided where to bury their dead. A few coffins still lacked names carved into the plates.

"They held the service back," the Duke continued. "They waited for you."

Phillip felt that in his chest like a stone dropped into water. "I'm not sure I deserve that."

"You don't," the Duke replied bluntly. "But they believe you are the only one trying to make sure this never happens again."

Henry shifted uncomfortably at hearing that. Phillip didn't respond. He walked toward the church steps.

Inside, the chapel was packed so tightly that people stood in the aisles. The smell of beeswax candles mingled with damp wool clothing. The low murmur of grief made the air feel heavy, like the room itself shared the sorrow.

Phillip stopped near the entrance. He didn't push toward the front—he stayed where everyone could see him enter.

And they did.

Faces turned. Some expressions hardened. Others softened. A few looked hollow. But no one ignored him.

A mother holding a folded bonnet—perhaps all that remained of her daughter—looked at Phillip with swollen eyes. A railway fireman with soot-stained hands glared as if weighing blame. Another man placed a hand on the fireman's arm, as if to remind him that anger must land somewhere, even when it lands unfairly.

Phillip accepted every look.

The priest stepped up to the altar. Father Whitcombe, an old man with gray hair tied behind his head, raised his hands. His voice, though soft, carried across the room.

"We gather not to curse the days behind us, but to carry forward the memory of those taken from us too soon."

Several heads bowed. Some did not.

Phillip remained still.

The priest continued. "Many here have lost husbands, wives, children, kin. Tragedy struck where none expected it. And in this hour, we do not ask for answers, because none would soothe the heart—not today."

Phillip looked toward the front pews. Twelve coffins rested there. Some draped in simple cloth, others bearing small belongings. A worn leather satchel for one. A child's wooden toy for another. A gold wedding band tied to a ribbon for a third.

He closed his eyes briefly. He could still see the wreckage. Still smell the steam. Still hear the silence that followed the collision.

The priest raised a candle. "But we may ask for courage. Courage to rebuild. Courage to prevent this grief from striking again."

Something in the air shifted. People began glancing toward Phillip again.

Father Whitcombe noticed but did not pause. "It has come to my attention that a man among us is working tirelessly to ensure no such tragedy repeats itself. To give the railways a voice. And to give us time—precious time—to prevent disaster."

Phillip felt the weight of every gaze settling on him.

The priest's eyes met his. "Lord Phillip Wellington, will you step forward?"

Phillip hesitated—but only for a moment. He moved through the aisle slowly, each step echoing across the wooden floor.

When he reached the front, the priest gestured for him to stand beside the coffins.

Father Whitcombe addressed the congregation. "This man did not cause this tragedy. But he is doing what many would not—he is shouldering the burden of its aftermath. He has devised a system to speak across distances no man can run, no horse can travel. The telegraph line now being raised will serve every rail, every station, every family depending on safe passage."

Murmurs spread through the room again, but these were different—curiosity, hope, fear.

The priest turned to Phillip. "If you have words for the families, speak them."

Phillip hadn't prepared anything. He didn't need to.

"I did not come here today to offer comfort," he began, his voice steady but low. "No words of mine can restore what was lost. No invention can erase grief. No promise I make will bring back the people we mourn today."

Some families looked away. Others watched him intently.

Phillip continued, "But I can tell you what I saw. When I examined the rails, the wheels, the boilers, the engines—I saw no betrayal of craft. No broken axle. No flawed steel. These machines did everything they were built to do."

He paused, letting that truth settle.

"This tragedy was caused by distance," he said. "By the simple, terrible fact that men cannot outrun time. A message sent minutes too late might as well have never been sent at all."

In the pews, the mother with the bonnet trembled.

Phillip's jaw tightened. "I cannot undo that. What I can do is make certain we never face the same blindness again."

He took a breath. "The line we built this week—connecting Shropshire to the first station—is only the beginning. Soon every station will speak to its neighbors. Dispatch orders will be instant. Warning signals immediate. No train will travel into uncertainty again."

A few heads nodded slowly. Others remained skeptical. That was alright.

Phillip added, "This telegraph will not replace human judgment. But it will give men the information they need to make the right decisions in time to save lives."

A railway guard near the front wiped his eyes with the back of a rough hand.

Phillip concluded, "I will not leave this region until every mile of track is protected. That is my vow—to the families here, and to every passenger who entrusts their life to the railway."

Silence followed—not hostile, not cold. Heavy, but no longer suffocating.

The priest placed a hand briefly on Phillip's shoulder. "Thank you."

Phillip stepped back, returning to the aisle. As he walked past the families again, the fireman who had glared earlier now held his cap against his chest and nodded once—not forgiveness, but acknowledgment.

Outside, the bells began tolling again.

Henry joined Phillip on the church steps. "That was… more than anyone expected."

Phillip looked out across the churchyard, at the newly dug earth and the gathering villagers. "It wasn't enough."

"Maybe not," Henry said softly, "but it was the truth."

The Duke approached, hands clasped behind his back. "Your words will travel farther than your telegraph wires for now. And they needed to."

Phillip said nothing.

The Duke lowered his voice. "You carry this weight because you must. But do not forget—weights are meant to be moved, not worn."

Phillip studied the rows of graves. He knew this sight would stay with him long after the telegraph lines stretched across Britain.

"We start extending the line tomorrow," he said quietly.

Henry nodded. "All the way north?"

"All the way everywhere," Phillip replied.

For the first time since the crash, he felt resolve—not sharp and burning, but steady and unyielding.

The bell tolled again.

Phillip turned toward the road.

There was work to do.

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