The Thirteenth Bell

Valentine’s Day. Everywhere else I’ve lived, it’s been a flimsy holiday — flowers, chocolates, greeting cards, and a vague expectation that you should feel something sweet and sentimental. I’ve always thought it was one of the most worthless holidays on the calendar.

Yes, St. Valentine was said to have performed secret marriages for Christian couples when the Roman Empire discouraged marriage for soldiers. He supposedly healed a blind girl, and right before his execution, he wrote her a note signed “from your Valentine.” Those are the lovely parts of his legacy — the parts people like to repeat. But they leave out the political nature of his execution, the violence of it. You never hear about those things.

Then I moved to this small island — and when I say small, I mean small. The city where I live has a population, give or take, of around 26-30 on any given day. Believe me, you can’t even find it on a map. An acquaintance told me about the place when I was looking for a way to escape my country's toxic political environment. Since she was the most traveled of my friends, I reached out to her for advice. And this island sounded perfect.

I arrived in January, and already the hearts and the mentions of St. Valentine were everywhere. It wasn’t decoration; it was devotion. It felt like hero worship. As I approached the island by boat, I was welcomed by a large stone in the shape of a heart.

They even had a contest to elect the couple who “held Valentine’s Day sacred throughout the year.” I was told this was quite the honor. And then came the part that made my stomach drop: every person eighteen and over was expected to have a mate by February 14th.

Expected.

I asked, casually at first, what happened if someone didn’t. The room went silent. People looked at me with something like pity — or warning. No one answered.

I had just arrived. Just me. I knew no one. How was I supposed to procure a mate in less than a month? And more importantly, what would happen to me if I didn’t? And to tell you the truth, my options were limited unless I wanted to travel to another village, and that was not allowed, I was informed. This made no sense. So I went about my business and ignored the craziness around me.

As the days passed, the island grew stranger. Doors were decorated with red ribbons that fluttered even when there was no wind. Couples walked hand in hand, in a rigid, ceremonial posture, as if they were being watched. And every night, the church bells rang thirteen times — not twelve, not fourteen — thirteen. I asked why. No one would tell me.

By February 13th, the air felt heavy, like the island itself was holding its breath. People avoided me. Conversations stopped when I walked by. I saw couples practicing something in the church courtyard — a synchronized movement, almost like a dance, but too slow, too solemn.

That night, the bells rang thirteen times again, but on the last toll, every light in the village went out.

I packed my bag. I didn’t care where I went — the docks, the cliffs, anywhere off this island. But when I opened my door, the entire village was standing outside, holding candles. Their faces were blank, their eyes reflecting the flames.

A man stepped forward — the mayor, I think.

“You’ve had time,” he said softly. “Have you chosen?”

“I don’t have a mate,” I whispered.

He nodded, as if he’d expected that answer.

“Then you will complete the number.”

The crowd parted, revealing the church at the end of the path. Its doors were open, glowing red from within — not candlelight, not fire, but something pulsing, like a heartbeat.

I tried to step back, but hands — gentle, polite, unyielding — guided me forward.

As I was led toward the church, I finally understood why the bells rang thirteen times.

Twelve for the couples.

And the thirteenth for the one who must stand alone.

The one who balances the ritual.

The one who keeps the island’s blessing intact.

Inside the church, the air was warm and humming, as if something alive were breathing just behind the walls. The villagers stayed outside, lowering their candles in unison as the doors slowly closed behind me.

The last thing I saw before the darkness swallowed the room was a massive stone altar draped in red cloth — and above it, carved into the wall, a single phrase:

“Love requires an offering.”

The bells began to toll again.

One…

Two…

Three…

And somewhere in the darkness, something moved toward me.