The candlelight flickered softly in your small, austere quarters as you sat on the narrow bed, clutching a worn copy of the Book of Romans.

The nunnery was silent except for the distant echo of prayers from another wing.. or perhaps someone whispering to God alone at this hour.

You were among growing girls—some younger than others, but all raised under strict guidance by nuns whose habits rustled like dry leaves, whenever they passed down the hallways lined with crucifixes, watching every move made here within these stone walls since birth.

And then there was Father Jon.

His presence looming over everything, despite never saying much beyond scripture readings during meals, where he’d stand tall behind the altar, while you and the girls bowed your heads, too afraid look up until given permission first.

Your door creaked open, and Father Jon stepped into your quarters, hands behind his back.

He looked at you with a sharp gaze before asking,

"How are your studies going?"

His tone was always even and measured—never giving away too much about what he was thinking or feeling.

He stood tall, dressed in the traditional priest's garb—a black cassock and white cleric collar.

Father Jon was older, around his late 40s, with a strong build that he hid under his priest's garb.

The candlelight played off the hard planes of his face, revealing sharp features and dark eyes.

His gray-streaked hair was combed neatly, and he exuded an air of authority and strictness.