Anwen’s days had always started with silence. The kind that wrapped itself around your throat and held you in place, like the rough hands of Sister Mildred as she straightened her collar every morning. The convent air was thick with prayers spoken so often they turned to dust in the mouths of the sisters, crumbling under the weight of routine.

Anwen never liked prayers. They reminded her of the cold stone floor she knelt on each morning, the way her knees turned numb, the bitter sting of incense swirling through the chapel. But most of all, they reminded her of what she wasn’t: of the stillness she could never seem to master, the peace that slipped through her fingers like sand.

The chapel was empty now, save for the echo of her footsteps as she crossed the threshold. She didn’t belong here. She knew that much. The nuns didn’t say it, but their looks said more than words ever could. The way their eyes passed over her as though she were a shadow in the corner, something to be swept away when the time was right. Even her own mother had looked at her like that once; like a lost cause.

The thought made her chest tighten.

Anwen stood before the altar, staring up at the figure of Christ hanging above. His eyes seemed to follow her, and she shuddered, looking away quickly. She hated how much the chapel watched her. Everything in this place had eyes – God’s eyes, they said – always watching, always judging. She wasn’t sure who God was anymore. Was He the one who left her here? Was He the reason her mother had whispered about demons when she caught Anwen shaking during the sermon?

No one believed her when she said it wasn’t demons that made her tremble in the pews. It was the way the words of the priest snaked into her mind. Words about sin, about fire, about the weight of damnation that hung above them all, ready to fall.

She hated those words. But she couldn’t say that, either.

She turned away from the altar, her shoes scuffing against the worn stone floor. Outside, the bell tolled for noon, but she didn’t feel the time pass the way others did. To Anwen, time felt more like water slipping between her fingers: she couldn’t hold it, couldn’t stop it. But sometimes, if she let herself get lost in her thoughts, she could forget about it. She could drift somewhere else, somewhere the sisters’ eyes couldn’t reach her.

Her feet carried her through the dim corridors of the convent, down the narrow, winding steps to the lower rooms. The kitchens were warm, the only place in the convent where warmth ever lingered. She liked it here, though she was never allowed to touch anything without Sister Agnes barking at her. Today, though, the kitchen was empty. The scent of bread filled the air, and her stomach growled.

She reached for a half-finished loaf, eyes darting toward the doorway in case someone caught her. The bread was soft, its crust still warm, and for a moment, she let herself enjoy it. Just a taste of something real. Something solid.

Anwen sat on the floor, leaning against the cool stone wall, and took another bite. She imagined what it would be like to have her own kitchen, somewhere far from here. Maybe with a garden outside, filled with the wildflowers she sometimes caught a glimpse of beyond the convent gates. A place where no one whispered about demons or watched her every move.

But dreams were dangerous. She knew that. The sisters always said to keep her mind on the present, to pray for clarity. They didn’t know how impossible that was when the present felt like a cage.

Her fingers traced the cracks in the floor, following their winding paths. The stones were old, worn by years of feet passing over them. She wondered how many girls like her had knelt on these floors, had prayed for something, anything, to take them away.

But no one ever left the convent unless the sisters decided it was time. And girls like Anwen didn’t get to decide their own fate.

A creak from the kitchen door snapped her back to the present. Anwen froze, holding her breath.

"Anwen!" Sister Agnes called, her tone like a lash. "You’re supposed to be cleaning, not daydreaming."

Anwen stood quickly, brushing the crumbs from her dress. The silence filled the space between them again, thick and suffocating. She wished she could melt into the walls, invisible and forgotten. But Sister Agnes’ gaze pinned her where she stood.

"Yes, Sister." Anwen muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.

As she picked up the broom and began to clean the floor, she felt that familiar tightness in her chest again. The kind that told her she didn’t belong here, that she wasn’t meant for this life of dust and silence. But that feeling was dangerous too. Hope was dangerous. Because hope, like dreams, could be snuffed out just as quickly as it appeared.

And so, she swept in silence, letting the sound of the broom’s bristles scratching the stone drown out the noise in her head. Tomorrow would be the same, and the day after that. But somewhere, deep in the part of her she tried to ignore, a tiny ember burned. A whisper that one day, she might escape this place.

One day, the silence might break.