"Sister Annie, go and fetch me some water."
Sister Rebecca's voice cracked through the quiet courtyard like a whip against stone.
I paused mid-step, the damp hem of my habit brushing my ankles. I did not turn immediately. I had learned—too quickly—that hesitation angered her more than defiance, and obedience never softened her heart anyway.
"Yes, Sister," I said, finally.
I felt her eyes on my back as I walked away. She always stood like that—rigid, unmoving—watching as though my spine might curve the wrong way, as though my breath itself offended her. Some people prayed with their hands clasped. Sister Rebecca prayed with judgment.
She had already sent me to the kitchen twice that morning. Once to scrub pots that were already clean, once to carry bread I was never allowed to eat. The sun had barely climbed the convent walls, and my shoulders already ached.
"Sister Rebecca," a gentler voice cut in.
Nun Esther approached us, her steps quick, her face drawn tight with careful courtesy. "I asked Annie to mop the refectory first. It would be kinder to send another girl for the water."
Kinder.
The word hovered between them like a fragile thing.
Sister Rebecca's lips curved into a smile that never reached her eyes. "Of course, Sister Esther." She turned away as if the matter were settled, as if she had not already won. "Annie, make sure the floor shines."
She left before I could speak.
"Be quick," Sister Esther murmured, not unkindly, already retreating down the corridor.
I dipped the mop into the bucket and dragged it across the stone floor. The smell of old water and soap filled my nose. My hands were raw. My thoughts were louder than my breath.
My name is Annie.
I was not born to silence, though silence became my punishment.
They said I killed my aunt.
They said my presence brought sickness to her house, that my youth tempted misfortune, that my voice—too loud, too beautiful—called disaster down like rain. When she died suddenly, choking on her own breath, they did not ask who stood to gain. They only asked who stood nearby.
Me.
The court never proved anything. But proof was unnecessary. The priest said God would forgive me if I gave my life to Him. My uncle nodded too quickly. And so I was brought here—my hair shorn, my name stripped of warmth, my future sealed behind stone walls and scripture.
A convent is meant to cleanse the soul.
Instead, it sharpened the world's cruelty.
Every day, the senior nuns gave me more work than the others. Especially Sister Rebecca. She watched me when I sang during prayer and ordered me silent halfway through a hymn. She corrected my posture, my gaze, my breath. I heard the whispers when I passed.
She is too beautiful to be holy.
Beauty is a temptation.
Beauty is a sin.
I wrung the mop and leaned it against the wall to dry.
"Annie!"
I flinched.
A novice stood at the doorway, eyes wide, breath uneven. "Sister Rebecca demands your presence at the Father's office."
My stomach tightened.
I washed my hands quickly, wiped them against my habit, and walked the long corridor toward judgment.
The Father sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, eyes tired. Sister Rebecca stood beside him, serene as a saint carved in stone.
"Good morning, Father," I said, bowing my head.
"Sister Annie," he replied, not unkindly. "Sit."
I remained standing.
"I was told you refused to assist Sister Rebecca with her task," he said. His voice hardened. "Is this true?"
"No, Father. That isn't what happened. Sister Esther—"
"Enough," Sister Rebecca snapped.
She turned to me fully now, her expression grave, almost sorrowful. "Holy Mary, Mother of God. This girl lies as easily as she breathes. I have warned her many times to pray for a better conscience. I fear wickedness has rooted itself in her heart."
The Father shook his head slowly.
"I apologize for her delinquency," he said to Sister Rebecca. "Do as you see fit. She will adjust."
And just like that, I was dismissed.
"You heard him," Sister Rebecca said softly as we left the office. Then her voice sharpened. "Now go and get me some water."
I did not answer. I ran.
The path to the well curved behind the convent, beyond the fig trees where the younger girls whispered and laughed when the nuns were not watching. But today, the yard was empty.
Too empty.
No laughter. No footsteps. Even the cicadas were silent.
The well stood where it always had, old stone ringed with moss, rope frayed with age. I hesitated. Something in the air felt wrong—thick, heavy, as though the world were holding its breath.
I grasped the rope and lowered the bucket.
When I pulled it up, the water caught the sunlight and glimmered unnaturally, silver instead of clear. My reflection wavered across its surface.
It felt… alive.
I reached out.
My fingers passed through the surface as though it were smoke.
Cold seized my wrist.
I screamed—but the sound vanished, swallowed whole.
Something yanked me forward. The ground disappeared beneath my feet. The sky twisted. Stone rushed past me. The world folded inward, and the last thing I felt was falling—
Not into water.
But into darkness that burned.
And then—
Nothing.