ST. MARY’S ORPHANAGE.
Richard slowed without knowing why. He parked, shut off the engine, and sat there listening to the rain drum the roof. What am I doing? he thought. But Anne’s words pressed against his ribs like a hand. Give it somewhere to go.
He stepped into the storm, coat instantly soaked, shoes splashing through shallow water as he climbed the steps. He rang the bell. The sound echoed inside the building like it mattered.
A nun opened the door, her face lined with the quiet patience of someone who had seen too much.
“Yes?” she asked gently.
“I’m sorry,” Richard started, voice awkward. “I… I don’t know why I’m here. I just saw the sign.”
She studied him for a beat, then stepped aside. “Come in before you catch pneumonia,” she said.
Inside, the air smelled like lemon cleaner and something faintly sweet—oatmeal, maybe. The hallway was warm, lit by old lamps, and somewhere deeper in the building a baby cried briefly before being soothed. Richard wiped rain off his face and tried to remember how to breathe.
“I’m Richard Miller,” he said.
“Sister Catherine,” the nun replied. “Are you here to donate? Volunteer?”
Richard swallowed. “I lost my wife. We never had kids. I don’t… I don’t have a plan.”
Sister Catherine’s expression softened, but she didn’t pity him.
“Sometimes people arrive here without a plan,” she said quietly. “And that’s when God does His best work.”
