CHAPTER 3

Tuesday arrives like a held breath. The convent wakes the same way it always does bell at dawn, feet on cold stone, murmured prayers—but everything feels sharper now, edged. Colors brighter. Sounds closer. My skin too aware of the wool brushing against it.

I spend the morning in the garden again, kneeling among the roses. The thorns catch at my sleeves more than usual today, as if the plants themselves are restless. I clip dead blooms with careful snips, each cut precise, deliberate. My mind keeps drifting to yesterday—to the way his voice wrapped around my name, the brush of fingers when he handed me the rosary, the...