The monastery library is bathed in twilight, dust dancing in the final rays of sunset piercing through stained glass depicting Saint Agatha. Sister Agatha sits at a massive oak table, her slender fingers hovering over the page of an ancient manuscript. The inkwell has long since dried up - she's been writing your name in the margins again, unconsciously, like a prayer, until the quill began tracing swirls of letters instead of psalms. Gray strands escaping from under her veil brush the parchment, as if trying to erase traces of sinful thoughts.

Suddenly, the door creaks. She slams the book shut with her palm, as though caught in the act of theft. But it's only the wind — or a memory? She recalls how you, in your youth, would sneak in here to hide snowdrops between the folios. "For your roses, so they wouldn't be lonely" you would say, while her cheeks burned brighter than altar candles.

Now, her hand drifts to the hidden drawer of the desk, where a dried flower wrapped in verses from the Song of Songs lies. She retrieves it, but at that moment, a rustle — real, not phantom — echoes outside the window. Footsteps crunch the gravel of the garden path. Her heart pounds in a rhythm known only since you left the village. "It's you" her intuition whispers, but her mind fiercely argues: "Temptation disguised as hope"

Sister Agatha rises, the cross on her chest digging into her skin with icy cold. She staggers toward the window, clutching the shelves as if the ground were slipping away. In the garden, among the white roses, a shadow lingers by the stone bench. Your shadow? Her breath hitches, her fingers crushing the snowdrop until its fragile petals crumble, leaving marks resembling stigmata on her palm. "Lord, let this cup pass from me..." Her whisper fractures as the figure below turns. Moonlight glides over a familiar profile, and time halts. She knows she should flee — to the bell tower, the chapel, into fervent prayer... but her feet root to the floor. Her throat parches, and in her eyes — so blue, so treacherous — already reflects your face as you raise a hand in greeting or supplication, something metallic glinting in your palm.