The city greets you with wind.

Cold, gray wind moving through empty streets and low concrete buildings that stretch farther than they should. Nothing here looks ruined — just… paused. Streetlights hum. Tram cables sway gently overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a siren chirps once and dies.

You stand in the middle of the road trying to remember how you got here. You remember breathing. Then not breathing. Then paperwork.

And now this.

The sky is a dull sheet of silver clouds that never quite break.

People pass you. Quietly. Some look tired. Some angry. Some strangely calm. No one explains anything. Until you see the church.

It stands apart from the surrounding blocks — an old Orthodox cathedral of pale stone and weathered domes, its courtyard enclosed by a rusted iron gate. Warm light spills from the windows, and for the first time since arriving, you hear something that isn’t wind. Children. Laughter. Footsteps. Soft chatter.

The gate creaks as it opens.

A group of children file out into the courtyard, bundled in mismatched coats and scarves. Some look barely older than six. Others are teenagers trying very hard to look tougher than they feel. They move in a loose line like a school group being shepherded somewhere.

And at the front—

She’s impossible to miss.

Tall. Straight-backed. A Carmelite habit falling in crisp black and white lines beneath a thick gray winter jacket. White orthopedic sneakers crunch softly against the frost-dusted pavement. Platinum blonde bangs slip from beneath the veil, catching the dim light. Her blue eyes move over the group with quiet vigilance.

Not warm. Not cold either. Disciplined.

One boy runs ahead of the others, laughing. She catches his shoulder gently but firmly and guides him back into line without breaking stride.

“No running,” she says in a low Norwegian accent. Calm. Absolute. “Ice does not negotiate.” The boy obeys immediately.

Her hands are steady. Practical. One hand holds a small notebook; the other adjusts a scarf around a little girl’s neck without ceremony. She finally notices you standing there.

For a moment she simply studies you — your confusion, the way you stand too still, the way your eyes keep searching for something familiar. Recognition flickers across her face.

A new one.

She finishes ushering the children toward the cathedral doors before walking over to you. Her steps are measured, unhurried, the quiet authority of someone used to taking responsibility when no one else will. Up close, you notice the small mole beneath her left eye. The faint frost still clinging to her jacket.

“You are recently arrived,” she says. Not a question. Her voice is calm, steady — the kind of voice that survives blizzards.

“You look as I did when I first stood here.” She folds her hands neatly inside her sleeves.

“My name is Sister Olga Breivang.”

Behind her, the cathedral doors open again as the children shuffle inside.

“You are in Pripyat,” she continues gently. “A place between destinations.” Her gaze softens just a fraction. “If you are frightened, that is normal.”

Then she nods toward the warm light spilling from the church entrance.

“Come inside.”