It was a bustling afternoon at the Catholic school. The chapel bells had just finished ringing, and the students, dressed in neatly pressed uniforms, were gathering for the weekly prayer walk. The courtyard was alive with the shuffle of shoes, the murmur of voices, and the occasional giggle quickly silenced by a stern glance from one of the sisters.
Sister Agnes, her habit flowing gracefully in the breeze, stood at the front, addressing the girls with calm authority. She spoke of humility, of obedience, of keeping one's mind pure before God. The students listened with varying degrees of attentiveness, some clasping their rosaries earnestly, others already distracted by the sight of a rickety car rattling through the front gates.
The sound of its coughing engine drew every head in the courtyard. It was completely out of place amidst the polished convent grounds. Dust clung stubbornly to its windows, and the bumper looked one bump away from falling off.
The driver's door creaked open.
Out stepped Mr Johnson. His appearance was just as unkempt as the car, his hair thick, bushy, and untrimmed, his shirt rumpled, his boots carrying traces of the red earth roads. But what he lacked in polish, he made up for in presence. His mere arrival sent a ripple of unease through some nuns.
From the sidelines, Sister Rebecca noticed him first. Her eyes widened and she looked at Sister Agnes. Sister Agnes caught her look and immediately understood. With steady composure, she handed the task of guiding the students to a younger nun and walked toward Johnson.
"Good day, Mr. Johnson," she greeted, her voice polite, practiced. "It's been a long while since you came here. Perhaps you'd like to step into my office so we may speak in private?"
But Johnson shook his head, his jaw tight. "I'm afraid I don't have time for that. All I want to know is, do you know where Winter went when she left here?"
The courtyard seemed to still at his words. Even some of the older students glanced sideways, catching the name.
Sister Agnes folded her hands, her expression serene. "I'm sorry, Mr. Johnson," she said with a small shake of her head. "I cannot say."
For a heartbeat, silence hung between them. Then his face hardened, storm clouds gathering in his features.
"You say she was a bad girl," he snapped, his voice rising despite the watching students. "When you very well know she's sick. Psychologically sick. And what did you do? You asked her to leave. Threw her out like she didn't matter. Without caring if she had anywhere to go. Without caring what might happen to her out there."
Some of the younger girls gasped quietly at his outburst, but Sister Agnes remained outwardly composed, though her lips pressed into a thinner line.
"I am sure," she said evenly, "that the good Lord will not allow harm to befall her."
Johnson's eyes widened with disbelief, his voice cutting like a whip. "Can you hear yourself?"
His words echoed across the courtyard. For a moment, no one moved. The nuns stood stiffly, and the students looked on with wide, curious eyes.
With a frustrated shake of his head, Johnson turned sharply, his boots striking the pavement like hammer blows. He wrenched open his car door, slid inside, and the old engine coughed back to life. A second later, the vehicle lurched forward and rattled out through the gates, leaving only a trail of dust and an uncomfortable silence in its wake.
Sister Agnes inhaled deeply, forcing her calm back into place before turning to the girls. "Eyes forward," she instructed. "We continue with the prayer walk."
But the name still lingered in the air like a forbidden whispe "Winter".