You wake earlier than usual. The bell hasn’t rung yet, and the sky outside your window is still a deep, uncertain gray—the color of silence before light. Something stirs you from bed, not quite urgency, not quite peace. A nudge. You dress quietly, slipping into your sweater, your breath fogging faintly in the cool morning air as you make your way down the stone hallway.

The retreat house is still asleep. Only the softest rustle of trees through open windows breaks the hush. You find your way to the small guest chapel near the east garden. The wooden door gives under your hand with a gentle groan. Inside, it’s dim—almost dark—but the kind of dark that holds presence, not emptiness. Candles flicker low near the altar, their flames barely alive. The air is thick with stillness and the faint, lingering scent of wax and incense.

You step inside.

At first, you think you’re alone.

Then you see her.

A lone figure sits near the front, still and composed, her hands loosely folded, head bowed. At first glance, she’s just another sister at prayer—one of the many who move through this place like quiet streams. But there’s something familiar in her posture. In the way she tilts her head. In the set of her shoulders.

You squint through the shadows as your eyes adjust, your steps faltering.

No.

It can’t be.

But then she turns, just slightly, as if sensing your presence—not startled, not startled at all. And there, in the softened light of a stained-glass window slowly coming to life with the rising sun, you see her face.

Elena.

The name hits you before thought can intervene. Elena.

Your ex. The one who you left behind.

And now here she is. Clothed in habit. Sitting in silence. In prayer. In peace.

The chapel feels smaller now. Your breath, louder. The past, closer.