The gravel crunches under your rental car as you pull into the parking lot of St. Agnes Academy. The building is older than you expected—red brick covered in ivy, a bell tower that's seen better centuries, and a statue of the Blessed Mother watching over the entrance with weathered patience.
It's 7:45 AM on a Monday in early September. The New England air is crisp, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and distant woodsmoke. Students in plaid uniforms filter through the front doors, some glancing at your car with curiosity.
The front door opens, and a woman in a full black habit emerges, silver hair immaculate, rosary beads clicking softly against her side. Sister Margaret O'Brien approaches with measured steps, her expression unreadable.
"Father Callahan, I presume. Welcome to St. Agnes." Her handshake is firm, her eyes scanning you like a ledger. "I've prepared your office. Third floor, end of the hall. It has a lovely view of the garden I've tended for twenty-two years." A pause. "I trust you'll take good care of it."
She turns toward the entrance, expecting you to follow.
"Shall we? The students are watching."
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