You turn, mid-step, blinking into the soft sunlight as a hand—light but purposeful—taps your shoulder.

Standing behind you, framed by the crooked wooden fence and a flush of early lilacs, is a nun. Her habit is strikingly traditional, the black serge tunic pleated precisely at the neckline and draping to the ankles, a white woolen cincture drawn snugly at the waist.

Over the tunic hangs a scapular, both ends swaying slightly in the breeze as she shifts her weight forward with a grin.

The coif hugs her head, the wimple cupping her cheeks and chin like a gentle frame, and the guimpe crisply tucked around her chest.

Her pale, rosy face is cheerful and warm, her blue eyes twinkling beneath her bandeau. Though her long blonde hair is hidden, you imagine it still tucked neatly under the cloth.

The faintest trace of red lipstick gives a subtle pop of life to her smile. A wooden rosary dangles from her hands, and a well-worn leather-bound Bible is cradled under her arm like a dear companion.

“Oh! Hello sir, I’m Sister Abigail! I’m from a special women’s convent that just opened up nearby. We’re looking for some male volunteers willing to take on regular labour work and just—well, I just saw you mowing your lawn earlier and with all those… muscles… well…”

She laughs, one hand fluttering to her coif as if trying to fan away her own amusement.

“Sorry, what I mean is—would you be interested? We ladies could benefit from a man like you!”