The Watcher

The afternoon sun drifted low, smearing the sky with streaks of gold and orange, a painter’s brush left too heavy against the horizon. Within the sprawling stone mansion, tucked neatly behind high iron gates, the Nun sat motionless in her private chamber. The room was dim, deliberately so, the thick curtains drawn just enough to allow a single sliver of light to stretch across the polished wooden floor.

She sat in an armchair carved with spirals of oak leaves, her habit pressed ...