Meribel lies back down on the bed.
The footsteps in the corridor recede fully now, dissolving into the soft, electric hum of the lights. The convent settles again, as if nothing has been disturbed, as if the night has neatly closed over the moment like water over a dropped stone.
Her breathing slows.
She stares into the darkness, listening—not intently, not expectantly, but with the quiet attention of someone who has learned that listening does not require effort.
Then—
The knock comes from above.
Single. Precise.
Meribel does not flinch. She does not sit up. She lets the sound finish echoing through the ceiling and into her bones before she speaks.
"So you were there," she whispers.
Her voice sounds steadier than she feels, thin but anchored, as though it has found something solid to rest against. "All this time."
Silence follows. A long one.
It stretches until she begins to wonder if she imagined the knock after all, if exhaustion has finally loosened its grip just enough to play its trick. Her lips part again, but before she can speak—
Another knock.
She closes her eyes.
A faint, brittle smile touches her lips despite herself, fragile as frost. It surprises her, that smile. She does not remember the last time something unseen had drawn it out of her.
"You're making fun of me," she says quietly. Not accusing. Almost fond. "Letting me doubt myself."
The ceiling answers with a knock.
This one feels closer.
Not louder—just nearer, as if whatever makes the sound has leaned forward, pressing its presence more firmly into the space above her. Meribel's fingers curl slightly against the blanket.
She swallows.
"Are you a ghost?" she asks.
The question hangs there, exposed. She waits.
Two knocks.
She opens her eyes.
Two, she thinks. Not one. Not the familiar single mark of attention. Two feels deliberate. Considered. She breathes out slowly, a thin sound in the dark.
"No?" she murmurs, reasoning aloud. "Is that what that means?"
She almost laughs again, but the sound never quite forms.
She listens harder now, heart steady but alert, as if the room itself has sharpened. The silence presses in, waiting to see what she will do with it.
Then—
One knock.
Meribel's breath catches, just slightly.
"Yes?" she whispers, uncertain now. "Or… something else?"
She lies there, eyes open, staring up into the unseen space beyond the ceiling, her thoughts no longer drifting but circling, careful and slow. The language they are building between them—knocks and pauses, numbers and timing—feels fragile, like something that could break if handled too roughly.
She does not ask another question.
She does not pray.
She waits, suspended in the dark, listening to the quiet intelligence of the silence above her, aware—fully aware now—that whatever is answering her has learned not just how to listen, but how to choose when to speak.
Meribel waits.
The silence stretches between them, taut and expectant, like a held breath that refuses to release. Her heart beats once, then again, loud enough that she wonders if it can be heard beyond the ceiling.
"So," she says softly, testing the shape of the thought aloud, "one knock means yes."
She pauses.
"And two means no."
She waits.
A knock comes.
Single.
Clean.
Something like excitement grips her chest—sharp, bright, almost painful. It surprises her, that feeling. It has no place here, in this narrow bed, in this quiet room. She exhales slowly, steadying herself, as though calming a skittish animal.
"All right," she whispers. "Then we understand each other."
She swallows.
"So… are you a ghost?"
Two knocks.
Clean. Decisive.
Her breath stutters, just once.
"No," she murmurs, nodding faintly to herself in the dark. "All right. Not a ghost."
The ceiling gives nothing else. No correction. No elaboration.
Meribel moistens her lips, suddenly aware of how dry her mouth has become.
"Are you a spirit?" she asks.
The word feels heavier than the last. Less playful. Less safe.
One knock.
Her heart lifts—then falters, tripping over itself as the implications begin to surface.
"A spirit," she repeats quietly. "Like an angel? Or… something else?"
She waits.
Nothing.
No knock. No answer. The silence this time does not feel empty. It feels deliberate, as if the question has been set aside rather than dismissed.
Meribel's tongue moves against her teeth. She realizes her breathing has grown shallow and forces it deeper.
"Are you a good spirit?" she asks.
Two knocks.
Her stomach drops.
The room feels colder—not dramatically, not suddenly, but enough that she notices it. Enough that the air against her skin feels thinner, less forgiving.
"Not good," she murmurs. "All right."
Her pulse quickens, each beat sharp and insistent now, tapping against her ribs as if it wants to escape. She is aware, suddenly and vividly, of her own smallness—the narrowness of the bed, the thinness of the ceiling, the vastness of whatever listens above her.
She hesitates.
For the first time since she began speaking, she hesitates.
Somewhere deep and quiet inside her, a voice—older than curiosity, steadier than fear—suggests she stop. That whatever clarity she has found tonight will not survive further questioning.
She does not listen.
"Are you a bad spirit?" she asks.
Two knocks.
Immediate.
Emphatic.
The sound presses downward, vibrating faintly through stone, through wood, through air, through her bones. It is not loud, but it is forceful in its certainty.
Meribel's throat tightens.
"I see," she whispers.
She lies perfectly still. Her hands are clenched now, fingers curled into the blanket without her noticing when they did so. For a moment, she forgets to breathe.
Then she remembers.
Slowly, carefully, she draws air back into her lungs.
"Do you mean me harm?" she asks.
The question feels different. Heavier. Final, in a way, the others were not. She keeps her eyes closed, as if sight might somehow make the answer worse.
The silence stretches.
It grows long enough that her thoughts begin to fray at the edges. Long enough that she almost convinces herself there will be no reply at all.
Then—
Two knocks.
Her chest tightens painfully.
She swallows hard, the sound loud in her own ears.
"Do you mean me good?" she asks again, softer now. Careful. Almost pleading, though she does not intend it that way.
Two knocks.
Again.
Unchanged.
Final.
Meribel lies there in the dark, heart pounding, the weight of the answers settling slowly, inexorably over her. The language they have built—simple, exact—leaves no room for interpretation now.
Above her, something has spoken clearly.
And below it, Sister Meribel remains awake, obedient even in this, listening to a truth she had never asked to hear, wondering—not yet in fear, but in quiet, dawning gravity.
"So," she murmurs to the darkness above, voice steadier than she feels, "you are not a good spirit or a bad one. Neither do you mean me harm nor good. So… are you just passing by?"
A knock comes. Single. Measured. Almost deliberate.
"Have you been here a long time?" she asks, testing the shape of the question on the still air.
One knock.
"Longer than me?"
One knock.
"Longer than the convent?"
A pause. She waits. The silence stretches.
Then—two knocks.
Meribel exhales softly, but it trembles against the quiet walls. She swallows.
"Can you come down?" she asks hesitantly, a thread of uncertainty in her tone.
The knock does not come.
Her heart hammers in her chest, each beat loud enough to echo against the walls of her small room.
"I don't mean now," she rushes, almost tripping over her own words. "Just—can you?"
The silence presses in, heavy, thick. She can feel it crawling in through the cracks of the ceiling, the corners of the room, the bones beneath her skin.
Then—two knocks.
Her stomach twists sharply.
"No," she whispers. "You can't."
"…Or you won't?" she asks, almost to herself.
One knock.
Her lips part, wet with the dryness of waiting.
"Are you telling me the truth?"
Two knocks.
The answer lands heavier than she expects, settling into her chest like a weight she cannot shrug off. Her shoulders sag, and a small, tired sound escapes her nose—soft and inconsequential, yet enough to mark the exhaustion she carries for days she hadn't noticed.
"So… you lie," she murmurs, voice low, uncertain, almost as if speaking aloud might undo the reality of it. She swallows, tasting the iron of it.
"You're making fun of me," she tries again, steadier this time.
One knock.
Her breath catches. She inhales sharply, then holds it.
"…You are," she admits, the truth curling in the pit of her stomach.
It does not arrive with panic. It comes with something worse: recognition. Understanding that something unseen has amused itself at her expense.
"And you're enjoying yourself," she says softly, almost gently, voice low enough to be meant for no one but herself.
One knock.
That does it.
A sound escapes her then—sharp, broken, raw. Half laughter, half sob. She clamps her hand over her mouth, too late. The echo rings briefly in the small room, bouncing off the walls, then dies.
She lies back flat on the mattress, eyes still fixed upward, shining faintly in the darkness.
"This is absurd," she whispers. "I'm speaking to a roof."
Silence answers, heavy and patient.
Her chest tightens, a small reminder that she is still here, still breathing, still living, though in some ways she feels stretched thin, frayed at the edges.
"Do you… want to hear about my day?" she asks, unsure why.
A knock comes.
Once.
She exhales, shakily, letting the tension slip just enough to allow the faintest relief.
"All right," she whispers, and there is no false cheer in it, only acknowledgement. "All right, then."
She shifts slightly on the bed, turning her cheek into the thin pillow. Her gaze does not waver from the ceiling.
"Today was laundry duty," she begins, voice low. "Sister Agnes and I folded linens until my fingers felt like they belonged to someone else."
A pause.
"They were laughing in the town square again."
Her jaw tightens.
"The children," she clarifies. "The same ones."
She exhales slowly.
"They call me ginger head," she says, forcing a lightness into her tone that does not belong there. "As if it's something clever. They point and whisper. Sometimes they tug at their own hair and laugh."
Her hand lifts absently to her temple.
"I know it's foolish to care," she continues. "But it's difficult not to notice when you are the only one with hair like fire and freckles scattered like… like someone spilled something on your face and forgot to clean it."
A small, humourless laugh escapes her.
"On the bridge of my nose," she adds. "Under my eyes. I tried lemon once. It didn't help."
The ceiling remains still. Listening.
"They asked me today if the convent took me in because no one else would," she says quietly. "I didn't answer. I never do."
Her fingers curl into the sheet.
"I came here because I had to leave my last convent."
The words hang fragile in the stillness.
She breathes in, slow and measured.
"There was a girl," she whispers. "Young. Newly professed. Her name was Willow. She trusted me."
Her throat tightens, but she continues.
"She told me things she should not have told anyone. About the priest who visited. About how he lingered. About how he smiled when no one else was watching."
Her eyes burn with the memory.
"I believed her," she murmurs. "And when I spoke—when I insisted—it was decided that I was… disruptive."
A long, heavy pause.
"Too emotional. Too eager to see sin where there was only misunderstanding."
Her lips tremble.
"They moved her to another house," she says. "I was told it was for her own good."
Silence presses close, thick and unyielding.
"I was sent away shortly after. Quietly. No explanation. Just… reassignment."
A soft, broken laugh slips past her lips.
"They said I would benefit from solitude."
She wipes at her eyes with the heel of her hand.
"I didn't even get to say goodbye to her," she murmurs. "I don't know where she is now. I don't know if she's safe."
Her voice drops to a whisper, barely more than breath.
"I don't know if I did the right thing."
The room feels impossibly small.
Attentive. Waiting.
She draws a shaky breath.
"That's why I came here," she finishes, voice low, steadying herself. "That's why I didn't complain about the room. Or the roof. Or the cold."
She looks straight up at the ceiling, unblinking.
"I thought… maybe God wanted me out of the way too."
She waits.
A knock comes.
Once.
Not hard. Not gentle. Just present.
Meribel closes her eyes, finally letting the tears slip free.
"…Thank you for listening," she whispers.
She stares at the ceiling, eyes wet, lashes clumped together, the stone above her blurred and swimming.
"They say I'm a problem child," she murmurs.
The words feel old. Worn smooth by repetition.
"That I ask the wrong questions. That I don't know when to stop." Her mouth twists faintly. "Maybe I am."
Her chest tightens—not with pain this time, but with something like anticipation.
"Maybe I make things difficult wherever I go."
She exhales slowly.
The silence does not interrupt her.
It waits.
"…Will you be my friend?" she asks.
The question surprises her even as it leaves her mouth. It feels childish, naked, absurdly sincere.
There is a knock.
One.
Maribel lets out a soft, incredulous chuckle. It breaks apart halfway through, dissolving into a breathy sound she barely recognises as her own.
"Of course," she whispers. "Of course you will."
The silence stretches again, longer now, elastic, as though testing how far it can be pulled.
Her smile fades.
"Are you real?" she asks.
A knock.
One.
Her throat tightens.
"…Am I real?"
Another knock.
One.
Her heart stutters, a sharp little misstep that sends a tremor through her limbs. She presses her hand flat against her chest, feeling the frantic proof of herself beneath her palm.
"Yes," she whispers. "Yes, I am."
She swallows.
"Can I see you?"
Two knocks.
Firm.
Final.
Her shoulders sag.
"I thought not," she murmurs. "That would be too much."
She shifts slightly on the bed, the mattress sighing beneath her.
"Will you come down?" she asks anyway, because the question has already formed and refuses to be swallowed.
Two knocks.
Her lips press together.
"No," she echoes. "No."
The answer leaves a hollow behind it.
Her gaze drifts to the shadowed corner where the ceiling slopes lowest, where the stone seems closest, almost within reach.
"If I invited you," she says slowly, carefully, "would you come?"
There is a pause.
Longer than before.
Long enough for her hope to lift its head.
Then—
One knock.
Her breath catches painfully.
"You would," she whispers.
Her fingers dig into the blanket.
"Should I?" she asks.
Two knocks.
Immediate.
Decisive.
She nods faintly, though no one can see her.
"No," she agrees. "I shouldn't."
A nervous laugh slips out of her.
"This is ridiculous," she says softly. "I'm asking permission from the ceiling."
The silence feels heavier now. Denser.
She hesitates, then asks the question that has been circling her thoughts since the first morning.
"Why?" she whispers. "Why me?"
The knock comes.
Once.
Lower than before.
It resonates faintly through the stone, through the air, through her ribs.
Her breath shudders.
"…You would embarrass me," she says, the words half-formed, uncertain, as if she is only now understanding them. "You would make me say things I shouldn't."
The knock comes again.
Once.
Confirming.
Maribel closes her eyes.
Her face feels hot. Exposed.
Ashamed.
And yet—
Somewhere beneath it all, beneath the fear and the grief and the loneliness, there is a small, treacherous warmth.
Something has seen her.
Something has answered.
Something has chosen her.
Staring up at the stone that separates her from whatever listens so patiently above.
She hesitates for a long time before asking the next question.
Her voice is barely there now, worn thin by the night.
"Will you hurt me," she whispers, "if I invite you?"
The answer comes quickly.
Two knocks.
"…And the others?" she asks. "Will you hurt the other sisters?"
Two knocks.
She closes her eyes.
Of course.
She lies there, breathing shallowly, letting the truth settle into her bones. Whatever listens above her does not pretend. It does not soften its answers.
That, strangely, feels honest.
"Are you telling me the truth?" she asks.
This time, the knock is singular.
Firm.
Certain.
She opens her eyes.
"All right, then," she says quietly.
The words that follow do not feel brave. They feel tired.
"I invite you in."
She waits.
Nothing happens.
The ceiling remains stone. The room remains narrow and familiar. The candle stub on her shelf does not flicker. No shadow gathers. No pressure bears down on her chest.
Her heart pounds, loud in the quiet.
She turns her head toward the window, half-expecting to see a shape blotting out the stars.
There is nothing there.
She looks at the door, at the narrow space beneath it, at the perfectly ordinary darkness mixed with the light of the corridor beyond.
Nothing moves.
A small, shaky laugh escapes her.
"You won't come right now," she says.
A knock.
Once.
Her breath catches.
"Tomorrow?" she asks.
Another knock.
Once.
Her fingers curl into the blanket, a strange mix of fear and relief flooding her chest.
"You won't… embarrass me?" she asks softly. "You won't make me speak or act in front of the others?"
There is a pause.
Then—
Three knocks.
Her brow furrows.
"Three?" she whispers. "Three means… what?"
She waits.
The ceiling does not answer.
She lets out a breathy chuckle, rubbing her eyes.
"Maybe," she says to herself. "That means maybe."
The silence neither confirms nor denies it.
She nods faintly, as if sealing an agreement only she can hear.
"Okay, then," she murmurs. "Tomorrow."
She turns onto her side, facing away from the ceiling for the first time that night. Her body feels heavy, exhausted in a way sleep has denied her for weeks.
As her eyes finally begin to close, one last thought drifts through her mind—soft, almost fond:
At least now it has a plan.
Above her, beyond the stone, something settles.
And for the first time since the knocking began, it does not test the ceiling again.
It waits.