The room was bathed in soft golden light, the kind that never truly belonged to the sun but rather to wealth carefully preserved through generations. Everything within it whispered of old money and high class—polished mahogany furniture, velvet curtains that pooled elegantly against the marble floor, oil paintings framed in gold, and delicate vases imported from lands far away. Even the air carried a quiet dignity, scented faintly with lavender and old parchment.
At the very center of the room stood a massive queen-sized bed, draped in pristine white sheets embroidered with subtle religious symbols. It was a bed befitting royalty, or perhaps someone even greater.
Upon it lay an elderly woman, fragile as a withering leaf, her body barely rising and falling with each shallow breath. She was well into her nineties, her silver hair thin against the pillow, her face lined with the quiet testimony of a long and disciplined life. Machines surrounded her, humming softly, their rhythmic beeping marking the slow passage of time—time that was rapidly running out.
By her bedside stood two young women dressed in the simple yet dignified black-and-white habits of nuns from the abbey. Their hands moved gently, reverently, as they tended to the woman—adjusting the sheets, moistening her lips, ensuring her comfort. In their eyes was not duty alone, but something deeper: respect, honor, and love.
"The doctor said Mother won't live for long," one of them whispered, her voice trembling despite her effort to remain composed. Her eyes glistened as she looked down at the frail figure on the bed. "She's already in her nineties, but… I still want her to live longer."
The other nun stiffened slightly, then exhaled shakily as she reached out to smooth the blanket with utmost care, as though even the slightest disturbance might shatter the fragile peace of the room.
"Who wouldn't?" she murmured, forcing the words past the lump in her throat. "She is kind, generous… a great role model. Everything you could ever wish for in a venerated mother." Her hands paused briefly. "How I wish she could live forever."
The first nun let out a soft, unsteady laugh, more breath than sound. "…Yes. Wishes."
Neither of them noticed the faint twitch of the elderly woman's fingers.
Though her body refused to obey her, her mind remained painfully awake. She could hear them. Every whisper, every sob carefully restrained in the name of faith. She wanted to reassure them, to tell them not to grieve, that it was all right—but her lips would not move, her voice locked away within her failing body.
Instead, her thoughts drifted elsewhere.
Eight months.
It had been eight long months since she became completely bedridden, eight months of staring at ceilings and listening to footsteps, prayers, and hushed conversations. Yet none of that troubled her as much as one small, almost ridiculous regret.
She wouldn't get to read the new book she had seen.
The thought filled her with a quiet, almost childish sadness. That last novel—unread, unopened—rested somewhere beyond her reach. The idea that she would never know how the story unfolded weighed on her heart more heavily than the fact of her impending death.
And yet… she was relieved.
Yes, relieved.
She was old—old enough to know when it was time to let go. Her body had become a burden, not only to herself but to the young nuns who cared for her day and night. She had lived long enough, perhaps too long. Dying now felt… appropriate. Restful.
Still, she knew she would miss them.
The books.
The thrill of unexpected plot twists, the brilliance of clever authors, the worlds that bloomed within the pages of ink and paper. Stories had become her final indulgence, her secret joy in the twilight of her life.
A faint sigh escaped her lips.
It couldn't be helped.
Her thoughts wandered backward, drifting through the long corridors of memory. She remembered the woman she once was—the woman the world had once known.
She had been a renowned surgeon, celebrated and respected, her hands steady and precise, her mind sharp beyond measure. She had stood at the pinnacle of her profession, saving lives, shaping futures. The hospital had once been her kingdom, the operating theater her sacred ground.
And then, she gave it all up.
For a reason many would call foolish.
For love, perhaps. Or disillusionment. Or faith.
She smiled faintly within her mind.
Stupid, she had been. Truly stupid.
And yet… she had never regretted it. Not once.
After leaving her former life behind, she entered the abbey, swearing herself away from men and worldly attachments. The abbey had been her refuge, her penance, her consolation. Through dedication and tireless work, she rose within its ranks, eventually becoming a venerated mother—respected, admired, and revered by all who knew her.
Age, however, is a patient hunter.
When it finally caught up with her, slowing her steps and weakening her hands, someone—she could no longer remember who—had introduced her to novels. At first, they were simple stories. Classics. Historical accounts. Moral tales.
Then came the variety.
Romance. Mystery. Fantasy. Genres she had never once considered in her younger years. She devoured them all with surprising enthusiasm, her mind as sharp and curious as ever.
Until one day, she stumbled upon something… strange.
A "reverse harem," it was called.
At first, she had scoffed. Absurd. Utterly ridiculous. A world ruled entirely by women? A complete matriarchy? She had nearly put the book down.
But curiosity—her oldest companion—had kept her reading.
And somewhere along the way, she found herself intrigued.
The themes were unconventional, the dynamics bizarre, yet the world-building fascinated her. One book became two. Two became three. Before she knew it, she was seeking them out, eagerly turning pages late into the night like a mischievous child.
Now, here she was.
Dying.
Wishing she had finished just one more.
A faint smile ghosted across her lips. How amusing it would be if anyone knew what she read in secret. The abbey had always known her as cold, stern, and distant—a woman with partial facial paralysis and an intimidating presence. No one would ever imagine the vivid worlds that danced behind her unchanging expression.
She had played her role well.
She had lived well.
And she had no attachments left behind.
Regrets?
No.
Absolutely none.
She could feel it now—the gentle pull, the quiet loosening of her connection to the world. Her breath grew lighter, her thoughts hazier. Sounds drifted in and out of focus.
The wind rustled through the trees outside, leaves fluttering like whispered prayers. Birds sang softly, and somewhere nearby, water flowed—steady, soothing, eternal.
She smiled within her soul.
Was this heaven already?
It sounded beautiful.
"Oh Lord," she prayed silently, "accept me into Your blossom…"
Footsteps entered the room.
The Pope himself stood at the forefront, accompanied by bishops and a small number of nuns. It was the morning prayer, a ritual they performed daily now, knowing each day might be her last.
The Pope's voice rang out, solemn and powerful.
"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy—"
She didn't hear the rest.
Sound vanished.
So did pain.
The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor suddenly flattened into a single, unbroken tone.
Chaos erupted.
Someone shouted for a doctor. Another screamed for a nurse. Hands fumbled for the call button. Some sobbed openly, others fell to their knees in prayer, murmuring blessings for her departed soul.
But she was already gone.
Her consciousness faded like ink dissolving in water, drifting away from the world she had known.
And with her final thought, there was only peace.