The bells meant breakfast.

  We filed into the hall in pairs.

  Boots and bare feet scraping stone.

  Long tables stretched the room.

  My feet didn’t touch the ground when I sat — three seats from the end.

  The troublemaker row.

  At the front, sisters stirred blackened iron pots.

  A basket of bread beside them.

  I sniffed the crust.

  Tapped it with my knuckle.

  Habit. Checking for hollowness.

  Not the fluffy kind you dream about.

  The shell hard enough to cut your gums.

  The middle, dense as wet clay.

  I swirled the soup.

  Dipped the bread.

  Bread that fought back. Figures.

  A strand of hair dragged through the soup.

  I caught it, shoved it behind my ear.

  Automatic. Practiced.

  And that was what made my stomach turn.

  Already this body was teaching me habits I never asked for.

  The trick was always the same:

  Give it time.

  Everything breaks eventually…

  Even breakfast.

  No one touched food until all were served.

  Until the blessing was spoken.

  One sister stopped to straighten a boy’s posture.

  Firm. Not unkind.

  That was how things worked here: care and discipline in the same breath.

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  When my turn came, I kept my eyes low.

  Took the bread pressed into my bowl.

  Sat.

  Steam curled into my face.

  Across from me, Anna.

  Small. Nervous. Slow eater.

  Tore her bread into tiny pieces.

  Let them sink one by one.

  I’d seen her lose meals before.

  Two seats down, an older boy had already finished.

  He was watching hers.

  I started on mine.

  Bread first.

  Fast, but not too fast.

  Never obvious.

  When Anna was halfway through, one sister’s attention was on two boys shoving.

  I leaned forward.

  “If you can’t finish, I’ll keep it for you.”

  She hesitated.

  Enough for the older boy to notice.

  All heads turned toward the fight.

  Mine didn’t.

  My hand slid across the bench.

  I took Anna’s bread.

  Broke off a corner for her.

  Slipped the rest under my shirt, through the split seam.

  That’s when it happened.

  A droplet of soup slid off my spoon.

  Hit the table.

  Normally, it would leave a greasy stain.

  This one spread clear.

  Like water over glass.

  The wood underneath spotless.

  Anna’s eyes widened.

  She looked from the table to me like I’d pulled a coin from behind her ear.

  I wiped it quickly.

  Pretending not to notice.

  But I noticed.

  The blessing ended.

  Benches scraped.

  One sister came down the row.

  Thin wrists, stronger than they looked.

  Sweeping crumbs into her palm.

  The older boy’s stare stayed locked on me.

  Not like he’d tell.

  We marched outside.

  Damp air.

  Coal smoke.

  River mud thick on the wind.

  The stones in the courtyard were wet and slick.

  “Stop there.”

  Not a sister’s voice.

  Deeper.

  Father Iren stood by the arch.

  Hands folded in his robe.

  His eyes moved over us like he already knew where the trouble would be.

  They stopped on me.

  My shirt felt heavier.

  “Your seam’s split,” he said.

  Then his gaze dipped — just for a moment — to the droplet of soup on my sleeve.

  Still perfectly clear.

  “Patch it before the cold takes you.”

  He gave a slight nod toward the group.

  “Carry on.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  I turned to go.

  “Not you,” he said.

  “We need to talk.”

  His tone said enough.

  Whatever came next…

  Wasn’t going to be confession.