The wind whistled through the bare branches of the trees that surrounded the old convent.

Afternoon was turning into night, tinging the sky with shades of rust and gray. The convent of Santa Dalia slept under a thin mist, and the harsh routine of the cold corridors gave way to an oppressive silence.

Sam Smith dragged a bucket of water across the stones of the cloister, the sound of metal echoing between the columns like a lonely call. His fingers were red from the cold, his body ached from the beating his father had given him that morning, and his mind wandered—as it always did—to her. Rose Morgan.

He had seen her before, crossing the courtyard in her dark school uniform, her red hair blowing in the wind. Her eyes... her eyes always seemed to see beyond, as if she saw something no one else dared to look at. Something that made Sam feel small, but also alive.

That night, as he carried the empty bucket back to the well, Sam saw her again. Rose crossed the side garden with quick steps, her gaze alert, as if fleeing from invisible eyes. She stopped in front of the abandoned chapel—the one no one dared enter anymore—and, after looking around, entered through the half-open door.

Sam stopped. A shiver ran down his spine. He knew every ruin in that place. The chapel had not been used since the fire years before, when the old nun had burned to death at the foot of the altar. They said the floor still bore the mark of blood, that voices whispered among the rotting pews.

He should go back. That was what his father would expect of him. But her name hammered in his chest. Rose.

Her presence drew him. As if Rose were a living flame, and he, a moth tired of the dark. He entered right behind her.

The chapel was plunged into darkness. The light filtered through the broken stained glass windows drew crooked patterns on the dusty floor. The smell was of wet wood, old candles, and something else... something sweet and rotten.

Sitting on the last bench, her back tilted back and one leg draped over the seat, Rose smoked a cigarette, her eyes fixed on the dark ceiling.