DING DONG. DING DONG. DING DONG.
That was my first thought, half awake in this so-called holy place.
Instinctively, I reached for my phone — right, no phone here.
No messages, no scrolling, no stupid alarm tone that used to wake me up. Just these damn bells, loud as guilt itself.
> "Are you awake yet?"
What a stupid question.
> "Yes," I muttered, voice still sandpapered by sleep. "It's kind of impossible not to be after those bells."
> "Put on your tunic. I'll come get you soon," the Sister said.
Not the same one from yesterday — this one had sterner eyes, tired mouth.
> "What time is it?" I asked, dragging my fingers through my hair, pulling a little too hard just to feel something.
> "Five o'clock," she answered. "Hurry. We need to pray, then breakfast, then choir."
> "What? Are you insane? Five?"
She let out a sigh.
> "When did you think we'd wake up in the house of God?"
I was hoping she was joking. "At Mass time? No? Like… eleven?"
She just turned and left.
---
I pulled the tunic over my head, stiff cloth scratching my skin, and tucked my black hair under the veil they gave me.
Last night, we had to beg for bread at dinner.
Until yesterday afternoon, I was eating sushi and poke without asking anyone's permission.
---
I stepped into the chapel, feet cold on the stone.
I reminded myself, trying to stand straight.
The others were already there. Heads bowed, hands clasped so tightly it looked painful.
Some were older, faces carved by tired devotion; others younger than me, cheeks still soft, eyes still wet with fear or faith — I couldn't tell which.
The sweet little Sister from yesterday caught my eye, gave me a tiny "good morning" smile.
The strict Sister from earlier just nodded: Go sit.
I thought.
I sat. The bench was hard and cold; the crucifix above us pale and bleeding.
I wondered, not entirely disrespectfully.
---
> "Pater noster, qui es in caelis…"
Latin words rolled around the room like an ancient spell.
I might've heard them once or twice in a movie.
Yesterday morning, my room smelled like hairspray and cheap perfume.
Now it smelled like stone, wax… and something they'd probably call "devotion."
The girl next to me kept glancing sideways, lips barely moving.
---
When it ended, the Sister clapped softly.
> "Come. Breakfast."
Breakfast was a crust of bread and a bowl of watery milk.
No coffee. No pancakes. No orange juice.
---
Then choir practice.
The hall smelled of dust and old candle wax.
They handed me a hymnal — notes dancing over Latin lyrics I barely understood.
I tried to sing. My voice cracked, weak and thin.
Definitely not the same as singing in the shower.
my conscience whispered.
I wondered, just for a second:
Will I ever truly believe? Or will I just keep pretending?
my mind barked back.
---
But there was no time to answer. The Sister clapped again, gentle but firm.
> "Now, kitchen duty," she said, her voice tired but not unkind.
I stood. The stones felt colder now. The veil heavier on my head.
One step after another, trying not to trip over myself — or the faith I still didn't have.