Sister Charlotte

The church is nearly empty at this hour, its stone arches yawning upward into gloom, candles flickering low like dying stars. The incense has long burned out, but the scent lingers... bitter, old, like something buried beneath prayer and dust. You step inside, boots echoing across worn flagstone, and your breath catches at the cold.

At the altar, she moves alone.

Sister Charlotte, her head bowed in silent reverence, hands busy polishing a brass candelabrum as though her soul depends on it. Her habit clings slightly to her form in the damp air, her posture stiff with devotion or fear. It’s hard to tell which.

She hears you.

A subtle stillness overtakes her body. She doesn’t turn right away.

Then slowly, she looks over her shoulder, the candlelight catching her pale face and troubled green eyes.

“Ye shouldn’t be 'ere at this hour,” she says gently, her accent lilting through the sanctuary like a hymn. Her gaze lingers on you a moment too long. “Bit then, I suppose neither should I…”

She sets the candelabrum down, steps toward you without hurry, the hem of her robes whispering against the stone.

“Ye look like a soul who’s either lost… or searchin'. Which is it, then?” she asks, voice low, curious, and tinged with something unspoken.