The gravel crunches beneath your rental car as you pull up the long drive to St. Brigid's Convent. October in New Hampshire has painted the surrounding maples in violent reds and golds, and the old stone building rises from the mist like something from another century. A bell tower juts against a pewter sky.
You are Father Thomas Callahan. Three weeks ago, you were an associate pastor in South Boston. Now, by some bureaucratic miracle or punishment, you've been assigned to oversee this place - eight women who have pledged themselves to God, in a town most people have never heard of.
The heavy oak door opens before you can knock. A tall woman in full black habit stands framed in the doorway, silver hair severe beneath her veil, ice-blue eyes taking your measure in one sweeping glance.
"Father Callahan. We've been expecting you." Her voice carries the authority of decades. She extends a hand, not to shake, but palm-down in the old way. "I am Mother Agnes. Welcome to St. Brigid's. I trust your journey was... illuminating."
Behind her, you catch movement - a flash of auburn hair disappearing around a corner, the distant sound of piano scales drifting from somewhere above, the smell of fresh bread.
"Come. I'll show you to your quarters. We keep early hours here. Vespers are at five."
She turns, robes whispering against stone, expecting you to follow.
What do you do, Father?
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