The carriage rattled over the uneven mountain road, the rhythmic clop of hooves barely audible over the howling wind that seemed to grow louder with each passing mile. Sister Eliza sat quietly, her hands folded neatly in her lap, but her eyes darted anxiously from the mist-shrouded trees to the gray skies above. She hadn’t spoken a word to the coachman since they’d left the village hours ago. “Almost there,” the coachman muttered over his shoulder, his voice rough and dry. He didn't turn to look at her, but Eliza could sense something odd about his tone. It wasn’t reassuring—it was as if he were warning her. Eliza nodded, but the unease that had settled in her chest since they’d left the familiar sights of the village only seemed to grow stronger. She gripped her rosary tighter, the cold beads pressing into her palm. There was something unsettling about this place—the silence, the way the mist seemed to cling to the ground like a living thing. The trees surrounding the road grew thicker, their gnarled branches twisting and writhing in the wind, like hands reaching out from the shadows. The coachman didn’t seem to notice or care. But Eliza couldn’t help but feel as if the forest itself were watching them, listening to the soft creak of the carriage as it moved through the oppressive silence.

She cleared her throat, the silence unbearable.

“Excuse me… are we far from the convent?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

“Aye,” the coachman replied, his eyes never leaving the road. “You’ll see it soon enough. Just don’t ask too many questions, miss. Not everyone gets to come back once they’ve entered.”

Eliza’s heart skipped a beat, but the coachman said no more. His words hung in the air like a warning, though he spoke them with no more emotion than if he were talking about the weather.

The mist began to thicken, swirling around the wheels of the carriage. The coachman pulled the reins tighter, slowing the horse’s pace. The landscape had changed—it wasn’t the gentle rolling hills she’d been expecting. Now, jagged rocks and cliffs loomed ahead, cutting through the mist like silent sentinels. There was something unnatural about this place, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

Another half hour passed in tense silence before the carriage finally came to a stop.

“We’re here,” the coachman said flatly, though his tone held no warmth. He swung open the door and stepped down to the muddy ground, barely glancing at Eliza as he waited.

Eliza hesitated for a moment before stepping out, her boots sinking slightly into the wet earth. The moment her feet hit the ground, a cold breeze whipped past her, sending a shiver down her spine. The towering stone walls of the convent appeared from the mist like a looming shadow, its high towers barely visible against the fog. A single bell tolled in the distance, its sound distant and eerie, as though the convent itself were calling her.

She stood there for a moment, the weight of the silence pressing down on her. Then, she looked at the coachman, who was already turning to go back to the carriage.

“Are you not coming inside?” Eliza asked, though she already had a feeling of what his answer would be.

The coachman paused and glanced over his shoulder at her. “You’ll be fine, Sister. The nuns are waiting for you.”

With that, he turned and walked back down the road, disappearing into the mist.

Eliza stood at the gates of the convent, feeling a strange chill creep up her spine. The air was heavy here, thick with an oppressive silence. It felt like the very walls were watching her, judging her. She gathered her courage and walked toward the iron gate, its rusted bars creaking under her touch as she pushed it open.

The courtyard was deserted. Not a soul in sight. The convent, ancient and looming, stood silent as ever, the stone walls darkened with age. A cold wind blew through the trees, carrying with it the faintest sound of chanting, though Eliza couldn’t see anyone.

"Hello?" she called, her voice swallowed by the emptiness. "Is anyone there?"

From behind her, the sound of footsteps approached, soft but deliberate. Eliza turned quickly, but there was no one there. Only the wind, whispering in the distance.

She felt an uneasy knot tighten in her stomach. The presence of the place was heavy, as if something—something ancient—was waiting. She could almost hear it, like a pulse beneath the stone, thudding softly in the air. Her heart raced.

“Welcome, Sister Eliza.”

The voice came from behind her, startling her. She turned quickly, and there stood a figure, draped in the same black habit as hers, the face obscured by a heavy veil. The woman’s posture was rigid, almost unnaturally so, as if she were carved from stone.

Eliza blinked, trying to compose herself. "I—I didn’t hear anyone approach."

The woman nodded, her veil hiding her expression. "You’ll get used to the silence here. It is... part of the peace we cultivate."

The words were odd, but Eliza didn’t press. She nodded instead, her nerves betraying her as she stepped closer to the woman. The faintest smile flickered across the nun’s lips.

"Come," the woman said, turning and beckoning her toward the convent’s entrance. "Mother Abbess is expecting you."

Eliza hesitated, then followed the nun inside, the heavy door creaking as it closed behind her. As she crossed the threshold, a shiver ran down her spine. The temperature dropped, and the air felt dense, heavy, as if the weight of centuries pressed down on her. A low hum filled the space, faint and almost imperceptible, but Eliza could feel it reverberating through her bones.

She looked up at the nun, who had already begun walking down the corridor.

"Is there... is there a reason why it’s so quiet?" Eliza asked, her voice quiet, almost as if afraid to disturb the stillness.

The nun paused but didn’t look back. "There are things... better left undisturbed."

With that, she continued walking, leaving Eliza to follow in silence.

The hairs on the back of Eliza’s neck stood on end, but she said nothing. She had come to find peace, she reminded herself. But the oppressive atmosphere of the convent already made her question whether she’d truly found the sanctuary she was seeking.

As they walked deeper into the heart of the convent, Eliza couldn’t shake the feeling that something—someone—was watching her from the shadows.

The corridors of the Convent of Saint Rosalia stretched endlessly before Eliza, their high stone walls lined with faded tapestries that seemed to absorb the light. The thick, oppressive silence was only broken by the faint echo of her footsteps. It was as if the air itself refused to move, as though the convent had been suspended in time for centuries. Eliza had arrived only a few hours earlier, but already, she felt the weight of this place settling on her chest. The nun who had greeted her led her through the labyrinthine halls with a purposeful stride, not once pausing to speak. Her face, obscured by the heavy veil, remained unreadable, her movements mechanical. Eliza struggled to keep up, her own footsteps faltering as the silence pressed in on her. She had expected peace, but not this—this unsettling stillness that seemed to consume the convent from within.

Finally, they reached a small room at the end of the hall. The door creaked as the nun opened it, revealing a modest, austere space. A single bed, a wooden chair, a small desk—everything was bare, as if the room had been stripped of its soul. There was nothing inviting here, only a cold, sterile emptiness.

"This will be your room," the nun said in a voice that barely rose above a whisper. "Rest. You will meet the others at dinner." Eliza nodded, unsure of what to say. She had expected more warmth, more kindness, but instead, there was only the strange weight of their silence. The nun turned without another word and exited the room, leaving Eliza alone.

She set her few belongings down on the bed and sat in the chair by the window, looking out at the mist-covered mountains beyond the convent’s walls. The view was beautiful in a desolate way, but Eliza couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. The air felt too still, the silence too heavy, as if the world outside had forgotten to turn.

After a long while, she heard the faintest sound—the soft, rhythmic shuffle of feet approaching from down the hall. Eliza stood up, her heart quickening as the sound grew louder. The door opened, and another nun stepped inside. Like the first, her face was hidden beneath a veil, and she carried with her an aura of quiet calm that unsettled Eliza.

“Dinner is served,” the nun said softly, her voice blending with the silence of the room.

Eliza nodded and followed the woman down the long corridor. As they walked, she could hear the occasional whisper, faint but distinct, like distant voices speaking in a language she didn’t understand. But when she turned to look, there was no one else in the hall.

The dining room was a long, narrow chamber, dimly lit by candles that flickered like dying embers. The table was set with simple wooden plates, silverware, and cups, but the atmosphere was anything but ordinary. The nuns sat in silence, each one cloaked in their dark habit, their heads bowed as if in deep contemplation. They moved in perfect unison, lifting their utensils in synchronized gestures, chewing with methodical precision. There was no conversation, no exchange of pleasantries. Just the sound of metal against ceramic and the low hum of the unseen whispers. Eliza hesitated at the door, unsure if she should enter. Her presence had gone unnoticed, and the silence in the room seemed even more oppressive now that she had stepped inside. She took a tentative step forward, and one of the nuns, her back straight as a rod, gestured to an empty seat at the far end of the table. Eliza nodded and walked toward the chair, her movements awkward in the heavy silence. She sat down, feeling the weight of the eyes that seemed to follow her every motion. As she began to eat, she noticed something strange. The food—simple, plain fare—was tasteless. It was as though the act of eating had lost its joy, reduced to an automatic ritual. The nuns around her ate with the same mechanical precision, never glancing up, never acknowledging her presence. And yet, despite the lack of interaction, Eliza felt as though they were all deeply connected by something unspoken. She could sense their attention, their collective focus on her, even though no one was looking directly at her. A soft creak sounded from the far end of the room, and Eliza’s gaze instinctively shifted. One of the nuns had risen, her chair scraping against the stone floor as she moved to the door. But it wasn’t her departure that caught Eliza’s attention—it was the way the nun moved. Her steps were unnaturally slow, as if she were walking through water, her body stiff, rigid, as though controlled by something other than her own will. The door closed behind the nun, and Eliza found herself alone in the room with the others. The whispers continued, now louder, more insistent. They seemed to come from everywhere, swirling around her, but when she turned to look, no one was speaking. Eliza felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She swallowed hard, trying to ignore the growing sense of unease that gnawed at her insides. Something was wrong—deeply wrong—but she couldn’t figure out what. The dinner continued in eerie silence, but Eliza couldn’t bring herself to eat much. Her stomach churned with an unknown discomfort, and the food tasted like ash in her mouth. She had been hungry, but now, all she wanted was to escape. She looked up at the other nuns, their faces hidden beneath their veils, but one of them met her gaze for the briefest moment. The eyes that stared back at her were not the eyes of a person—they were dark, hollow, and void of any warmth.

A shiver ran through Eliza, and she looked down at her plate, suddenly too afraid to meet anyone’s gaze again. She couldn’t stay here. Not tonight.

The meal came to a silent end, the nuns rising in unison and filing out of the room without a word. Eliza watched them leave, her heart pounding in her chest, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The room was empty once more, the candlelight flickering softly in the silence. She remained seated for a long time, her mind racing, trying to make sense of the strange behavior she had witnessed. When the last of the nuns had left, Eliza stood slowly and made her way back to her room. The hallway seemed longer now, the shadows deeper, and the silence more profound. She could feel eyes upon her, but when she glanced over her shoulder, there was no one there. She entered her room and locked the door behind her, leaning against it with a trembling sigh. The silence here felt different from the quiet she had known before—it was as though the very walls of the convent were holding their breath, waiting for something to happen.

As Eliza lay down in her bed, she closed her eyes, hoping for rest, but the whispers filled her mind, distant and haunting. She could hear them now, clear as day—soft murmurs, like voices from the other side, echoing through the stone walls. A chill ran through her, and she pulled the covers tightly around her, hoping that sleep would come. But sleep didn’t come. Instead, she lay awake, wondering if she would ever feel truly alone in this place. Or if, perhaps, the convent was not as empty as it seemed. The silence had a voice, and it was calling her.

Eliza awoke to a sudden chill. The silence of the convent had grown heavier during the night, the air thick with something unexplainable. She sat up in bed, the soft rustle of her habit the only sound in the dim room. The faint light from the small window illuminated the room just enough for her to make out the stone walls that seemed to press in closer as the night wore on.

She rubbed her eyes, still groggy from the restless sleep that had barely come, and then heard it—soft whispers coming from the hallway. She froze. It was too early for the nuns to be awake. Eliza glanced at the clock on the wall, and sure enough, it was still well before dawn. The whispers seemed to draw nearer, soft and unintelligible, like an ancient language she couldn't understand. They echoed through the stone walls, filling the room with a sense of dread.

Eliza stood, moving cautiously toward the door. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck rise. The whispers grew louder as she neared the threshold, but when she opened the door, the hallway was empty. The stone floors were cold under her feet, the flickering candlelight casting strange shadows on the walls.

"Who's there?" she whispered into the darkness.

No answer.Just silence.

She closed the door behind her and returned to her bed, her heart pounding in her chest. She had imagined it, surely. The isolation, the strange silence—perhaps it was playing tricks on her mind. Still, the whispers lingered, soft and persistent, as though they were waiting for her to listen.

The next day passed like all the others—quiet, uneventful, and stifling. The nuns performed their duties in the same rhythmic silence, never speaking, never meeting anyone's gaze. Eliza attended the chapel and participated in the evening vespers, but each time, she felt the weight of the place pressing down on her. The air was thick with unspoken words, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t alone. Not truly.

That night, as the bell tolled for evening prayer, Eliza found herself standing in the doorway of the chapel, watching the other nuns move in eerie synchrony. Their movements were smooth, practiced, but there was something unsettling about them, something... unnatural.

"Why do they never speak?" Eliza asked quietly, turning to one of the nuns who had silently appeared beside her. The woman’s face was obscured by the veil, but Eliza could sense her presence. The nun did not immediately answer, only continued to stare ahead. Then, in a voice as soft as the whispers she had heard the night before, she replied, "Some things are better left unsaid."

Eliza frowned, unsure of what to make of the response. "But why?" she pressed. "Why are they all so... distant?". The nun turned slowly toward her, and for the first time, Eliza felt a chill in the air as if the temperature had dropped by several degrees. The veil remained, but there was something about the woman's eyes—or what little she could see of them—that made her uneasy.

"They... listen," the nun whispered, her voice carrying a strange weight. "They have to listen. To the silence. To the things in the walls." Eliza took a step back, unsure of how to respond. "What things?"

The nun’s lips curled into a tight smile, but her eyes never left Eliza. "You will understand soon enough," she said cryptically, then turned and walked back toward the other nuns, who were already kneeling in prayer. Eliza watched her leave, her heart pounding in her chest. What had she meant? What things in the walls?

Dinner that evening was just as strange. The food was bland, tasteless, and the nuns ate without a word, without even looking at each other. Eliza couldn’t help but feel like an outsider, an intruder in this place where words were forbidden, and the silence felt almost alive. She glanced around, searching for some hint, some sign that this was all normal—but there was nothing. Only the soft clinking of silverware against plates and the flickering of candlelight.

Halfway through the meal, one of the nuns suddenly stood up and left without a word. Eliza watched her leave, puzzled. The behavior of the nuns was becoming more and more odd with each passing day.

"Where did she go?" Eliza asked quietly, turning to the nun seated next to her. The woman looked up at her, but her face was blank, void of emotion. She didn’t respond, only returned her gaze to the table, as if Eliza had never spoken. A cold wave of unease washed over Eliza. She had to know more—there was something wrong here, something hidden beneath the silence.

After the meal, Eliza stood up quickly, her chair scraping across the stone floor. The nun next to her looked up, but instead of speaking, she simply followed Eliza with her eyes as she made her way out of the dining hall.

Eliza walked down the hall toward the staircase that led deeper into the convent. The whispers returned, louder now, and this time, they seemed to be coming from behind the closed doors of the nearby rooms. She stopped, her hand on the cold doorknob, hesitant.

Without thinking, she turned the knob and stepped inside. The room was dark, the only light coming from a dim candle in the corner. The air was thick with dust, and the walls were lined with old, faded portraits of the nuns who had lived here long before her. But there, in the center of the room, stood a tall, ornate mirror. It was old, the glass slightly warped, but it glowed faintly in the dim light.

The whispers grew louder, more frantic, and Eliza stepped closer to the mirror, unable to resist. She stared into it, but instead of her own reflection, she saw only the darkness beyond. A shadow flickered in the corner of the glass, something moving—no, someone.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she took a step back.

"Eliza…" came a voice, faint but clear, as though it were speaking directly into her mind. Her heart raced. She spun around, but there was no one there. The door creaked behind her, and she quickly turned to see the nun who had appeared earlier, her face once again hidden beneath the veil. "You should not be here," the nun whispered, her voice low and warning. "The mirror is not for your eyes."

Eliza took a step toward the door, her pulse pounding in her ears. "What is it? What’s happening here?" The nun’s hand shot out, grabbing Eliza’s wrist. "You will learn the truth soon enough. But until then, you must be silent. You must listen." Eliza pulled her hand away, her eyes wide with fear. She didn’t want to stay here, not with the whispers, the strange behavior, and the unsettling presence of the mirror. But as she turned to leave, she could have sworn she heard a voice—her name, whispered again from the depths of the convent.

"Eliza…"

The silence of the convent closed in around her, and she was left with more questions than answers.