They walked in silence, and when they finally stepped beneath the Abbey’s archways, the dream from last night rushed back and pressed against his ribs: water, light, the sensation of falling upward, and always the same voice—not loud, not clear, only present, humming like a thread through breath.
Sometimes, in that voice, he thought he felt the shape of a hand—gentle, deliberate, as if placing something into his palm. He always woke before he could see the giver’s face. The ache it left behind was heavier than the dream itself.
For an instant, he thought about telling it to Ava, but he never remembered the words, only the ache they left behind, like a name he was supposed to carry. It stayed now, sharper than usual, refusing to fade as the morning wore on.
Across the cloister garden, half-shrouded by the last drift of mist, he saw Sister Mabelle. She stood under the far archway, motionless, her hands tucked into her sleeves. She wasn’t looking at him directly—more at the space around him, as if watching something just behind his shoulder. Her face was unreadable, neither stern nor soft, only still. He felt suddenly like he’d wandered into a room he wasn’t supposed to see.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t wave. Just remained there a moment longer than necessary, then turned and disappeared into the inner corridor, her robes brushing the stone in a hush.
He wanted to call out to her—just to say something ordinary. Ask about breakfast. Remind her that his math workbook was missing again. Anything that would make her turn back. But his voice stayed tucked behind his teeth, like it knew better.
Something about her stillness unsettled him. It reminded him of nights when he’d wake and find her standing by the dormitory window, not moving, as if listening for something far away. When he asked her about it once, she only smiled and said the stars liked to whisper old stories. He hadn’t understood, but the way she’d said it made him think the stories weren’t meant for him.