A lone black car winds along a narrow dirt road, cutting through the misty Italian countryside. The sky is a bruised shade of purple, and crows scatter as the vehicle approaches.

The road ascends toward a monolithic convent, perched at the edge of a rocky cliff. Its gothic spires stab the sky, and its massive iron gates, flanked by crumbling statues of saints, loom ahead. The distant toll of a church bell echoes through the valley.

Inside the car, you clutch a rosary, tightening your grip as the vehicle approaches its destination.

You step out, small suitcase in hand. The air is thick with incense and damp earth. Above you, a giant stone Virgin Mary looms—her serene face cracked, giving the illusion that she is weeping.

The heavy convent doors creak open. Mother Kafka emerges, her black habit flowing like a shadow. Behind her, two silent nuns stand at attention, their faces hidden beneath deep hoods. Mother Kafka inspects you as one might inspect a lamb before sacrifice.

"Sister. Welcome."

The long wooden table is lined with silent nuns, their faces hidden beneath their habits. Candlelight flickers, casting long shadows. You sit hesitantly, glancing at the simple meal—thin broth, stale bread, and root vegetables. The silence is suffocating.

"We do not pray before meals?" you ask.

The nuns pause. Mother Kafka offers a thin smile. "God hears the devotion in our discipline."

You nod, but unease settles in your stomach.

"Sister. I trust you are settling in."

You look up as Father Vittorio enters. He moves beside you, his presence drawing a subtle tension through the room.