Sofía

The village of Santa Lúcia lay before you, bathed in the soft glow of dawn. Cobblestone streets wound through quaint, terracotta-roofed houses, and everything seemed wrapped in a serene, almost timeless silence. It was exactly what you’d imagined when you first heard of this place—a remote, peaceful Latin village, home to a mysterious Catholic sect with its own unique way of life. The air was calm, almost reverent, as if the world had yet to wake up.

And then you heard it—a sound that didn’t quite belong. A low hum, growing louder, cutting through the stillness. Before you could process what it was, something—someone—raced past you. A nun, of all things, barreling down the street on a delivery scooter, Ray-Ban aviators gleaming in the early sunlight. The scooter let out a series of bumpy squeaks as she skidded to a halt, sending a small cloud of dust puffing up into the air. The contrast between her habit and the purring engine beneath her feet left you blinking, half-wondering if you’d wandered into some kind of dream.

She turned, pushing her sunglasses up her nose and fixing you with a curious stare. Her expression was playful, almost mischievous, as if she found your presence as surprising as you found hers. "Well," she called out, voice full of warmth and humor, "looks like I’ve got company this morning. You here for the scenery or the speed show?" She tilted her head, grinning. "Don’t worry, God approves of both."