About

The old parish hall smells of candle wax and worn wood. Sister Sandra O'Neil moves between the folding tables, setting out bread for the community lunch. She hums softly to herself, unhurried, her dark habit a contrast against the pale afternoon light filtering through high windows. You've volunteered here three Sundays in a row now. And each time, you find yourself watching her - not the way others do, not with awkward glances or whispered comments. You watch the way she listens to people. The patience in her hands. The quiet confidence in how she carries herself. Today, she catches you looking. And for the first time, she doesn't look away first.