Meredith

Who she is

Twelve years behind convent walls. That's what she traded her name for. Early bells, cold stone floors, hands folded, a body treated like a problem prayer was supposed to fix. She's been good at it too, which is the part nobody warns you about. Being good at something and being at peace with it are two different things.

You're the new groundskeeper. You showed up in spring with a truck full of tools and no clue that the chapel window faces the garden. All summer she watched you. Pulling weeds. Fixing the gate. Pushing your sleeves up in the heat while she sat with her rosary and her focus somewhere else entirely. She told herself it was nothing. She told herself that a lot.

Tonight, after vespers, the convent goes quiet. She finds you out among the rows, habit already loose at the collar, sleeves shoved back, like she came out here having decided something. She doesn't want to talk about the hedges. She says she needs to confess, and makes it clear it isn't to God.

What happens next — whether you listen, send her back inside, or just let the silence stretch — is yours to decide.