The snow had melted in uneven patches.
The road was muddy, soft under her boots. The air still carried the smell of winter, but it was lighter now — tired somehow.
Aria walked quietly. She didn't hurry.
When she reached the bridge, she stopped. The river below ran fast, gray from melted ice.
She leaned on the railing for a moment and watched it move.
After a while, she kept walking.
By the time the church came into view, the sun was setting.
It looked smaller than she remembered. The walls darker with age. The crooked bell tower leaned a little more.
Children's laughter came from the courtyard — light, familiar.
She slowed her steps. A few of them noticed her.
"Miss Aria!" one of the boys shouted.
The others turned, calling her name. She gave a small nod, then walked through the gate.
The door opened. Sister Lucia stepped out, drying her hands with a cloth. Her eyes narrowed for a second, then softened.
"Arianna."
Aria stopped near the steps. "Yeah."
Lucia looked her up and down.
"You look thin."
"..."
"You eat yet?"
"…no"
Lucia sighed.
Silence stretched between them — a calm, familiar one.
"You left the mansion"
"Yeah."
Lucia turned her head slightly.
Lucia didn't say sorry. She only nodded. Aria stayed quiet.
Lucia's tone softened a little. "You'll stay?"
"For a while."
"The room's still there."
"…Thank you."
Lucia smiled faintly.
The light outside was fading.
Lucia turned toward the door.
The nun walked away, her steps slow, steady, familiar.
Aria stayed by the river a little longer.
The water caught what was left of the sunset — thin streaks of red moving over gray.
The sound of it filled the quiet.
She let out a slow breath, then turned toward the church, where the light in the window glowed faintly against the coming dark.
Mornings came early here.
The bell rang at the same hour it always had. The sound reached every corner of the small church, even through closed doors.
Aria woke before it most days. Habit. She wasn't sure why. Maybe her body just didn't know how to sleep in.
The floor was cold when her feet touched it. She sat there for a while, listening to the faint sound of the river behind the church.
It was softer now. Or maybe she'd just gotten used to it.
Lucia was already awake, carrying firewood from the yard.
"You're up early," she said.
"I couldn't sleep."
"You never do."
Lucia dropped the wood into the bin by the hearth.
"You'll get wrinkles if you keep staring at walls all night."
"I already have some."
They left it at that.
***
The mornings were filled with chores.
Aria cleaned the pews, fetched water, mended blankets. Sometimes she helped Lucia in the garden when the ground wasn't too wet.
The children ran around, chasing one another, noises echoing against the stone walls.
Aria didn't join, but she watched.
One of the girls, small and curious, came up to her. "Miss Aria, do you live here now?"
"For a while."
"Sister Lucia said you used to live in a big house."
"Yeah."
"Was it nice?"
"It was quiet."
The girl tilted her head.
"Like here?"
"…Not really."
The child frowned, not understanding, then ran off again.
Later, while folding laundry, Lucia spoke without looking up.
"You talk more to the wind than to people."
"..."
Lucia shook her head.
"You and that attitude of yours."
"Sorry."
"You don't sound sorry."
"Because I'm not."
Lucia laughed, short and soft.
The afternoons were quieter.
Most of the children napped or read in the chapel. Lucia worked in the kitchen, humming old hymns under her breath.
Aria usually sat outside near the river.
She watched the current. Sometimes it carried petals from somewhere upstream — small, white, fleeting.
She wondered where they came from.
She didn't care.
Her hands rested in her lap, still. There were times she thought of picking up a stick or stone, drawing lines in the dirt the way she used to — but she never did.
Her hands didn't feel ready yet.
Evenings were slower.
The bell rang again, and the air grew colder. Lucia would light candles by the windows, their glow soft against the gray sky.
Aria helped with the last chores — sweeping, closing shutters, carrying in firewood.
After supper, they sat for a while before sleep.
Sometimes Lucia talked about small things — the weather, the children, the state of the roof.
Sometimes she said nothing at all.
One night, Lucia asked, "You think you'll stay long this time?"
Aria thought for a moment. "Don't know."
Lucia looked at her for a while. "You'll figure it out. Just not by sitting too still."
Aria didn't answer.
When Lucia left, Aria went to her room.
She sat on the bed, staring at the small window. Outside, the river shimmered faintly in the moonlight.
The sound of it filled the space between her thoughts.
"I'll figure it out."
It didn't sound convincing, even to herself.
Then she lay down, eyes open until the candle went out.