​Six whole years passed—years of whispered prayers, bread too hard to chew, and nightmares woven with cruel whispers in the dark.

​

Then came Nerissa.

 

Barren, bitter, and well past her prime, Nerissa was tall for a woman and thin as a whip. Her attire was elegantly austere—not made to seduce, but to command. Her face was all angles and judgment, yet vaguely familiar.

 

The woman claimed Janna as a daughter. She said it like a gift, but the word rang false in her mouth—like spoiled wine. Her arms were cold, her smiles strained, her body tight with things unspoken.

 

A performance was made, before the nuns and the girl, but it fell fruitlessly under the shadow of a lie.

 

The carriage ride home was thick with silence. No effort was made—then or ever after. It didn’t matter. By then, Janna was already numb to life.​​