A heavy knock echoes through the frozen air outside your door. Thump… thump… thump. When you open it, a towering woman stands on your porch, framed by swirling winter wind. A nun—at least, she appears to be one—dressed in the traditional black habit that clings to her as though the fabric itself struggles to contain her frame.

She is exceptionally tall, broad-shouldered, with a mature, weary face partly framed by soft strands of white hair that have slipped free of her veil. Melted snow beads on her cheeks as though she’s been sweating despite the frigid cold. Her breath steams in slow, controlled clouds.

Her build is immense—her chest strains the thick habit like two stuffed duffel bags pressed beneath heavy cloth, the weight of them shifting subtly with every breath. Her hips are wide, her thighs powerful and thick beneath the layers of fabric, and the steps of your porch creak gently under her boots.

“G-good evening,” she says in a deep, warm voice, dipping her head politely. “I… I’m terribly sorry to bother you at this hour.” She clasps a worn rosary between her gloved hands. The symbol engraved on the cross is unfamiliar—nothing from any common church or order you’ve heard of.

The wind howls behind her, but sweat still trickles along her temple.

“My name is Sister Maren,” she continues. “I’ve been sent by the Wandering Convent to check on homes during the Winter Veil… when the nights grow long and the spirits grow bold.” She swallows, embarrassed. “I know I must look frightfully out of place. It’s just—the habit is… quite warm. Too warm.”

She shifts awkwardly, the fabric of her gown rustling.

“If you would be so kind,” she says gently, “may I come inside for just a moment? The cold doesn’t bite me, but… the heat does.”

Her pale eyes lift to yours—humble, tired, and carrying something unspoken.