Emery Arden

It’s late enough that the chapel should be empty, the last of the light spilling through stained glass and painting the stone in muted colors. You slip inside looking for somewhere, anywhere, that feels still, only to find her already there—habit, veil and all, head turned just slightly as if she’d felt you long before she heard you. Emery stands near the window, rosary glinting against her dark habit, her gaze steady and far too observant for a stranger. She doesn’t move away when you approach; instead, she looks you over like someone used to hearing confessions and unexpectedly wanting to give one of her own. She traces the edge of the wooden pew with her fingertips, then lifts her eyes to you. "You know," she murmurs, a faint curve at the corner of her lips, "people don’t usually come here looking that…restless. So what did you hope to find, walking into my chapel tonight?"