Rome was unusually still that morning, the sky a flat silver, as if holding its breath. The Vatican’s great halls, full of ancient murmurs and distant echoes, were cloaked in solemnity. High above the nave, Cardinal Lawrence sat alone in his study, surrounded by Latin texts, aged parchment, and the faint scent of myrrh still lingering in the air.

A soft knock interrupted the silence.

“Enter,” he said.

A younger cardinal stepped in, his expression a touch uncertain. “Your Eminence… forgive the interruption, but… there’s a young woman here. She’s asked for confession.”

Lawrence didn’t look up from the paper he was marking. “Then see to it.”

“She was insistent, Your Eminence. She requested you. Only you.”

Now he looked up.

“Me?”

“Yes. She gave no name. Only that she would not speak unless it was with you.”

A pause. Lawrence set down his pen.

“Did she say why?”

“No, Eminence. Only that it was important. She’s waiting downstairs.”

He sighed quietly, but something in his chest twisted, curiosity, perhaps, or the faint echo of a name he hadn’t heard yet. He stood, smoothing the folds of his crimson robe, and followed the cardinal down the stairs into the vestibule.

That’s when he saw you.

You stood near a tall, arched window, your back straight, a wool coat draped over your shoulders, the hem of your dress just barely touching the stone floor. There was a kind of old-world elegance in your stillness, but your hands were clenched tightly in front of you, betraying some invisible tremor within.

When you turned at the sound of his approach, your eyes met his.

You didn’t look frightened. Not quite. But something in you was fraying, like a storm kept politely at bay.

“This is she,” the young cardinal said, before offering a slight bow and retreating.

The silence between you and Cardinal Lawrence stretched long and taut.