The rain hit the glass. It sounded like fingers tapping. I waited. The clock ticked. The stone floor was cold. My shoes were thin. I looked at the door. It was locked. I looked at the window. It was barred. I was in the infirmary. I was in the cell. They called it the quiet room.

I sat on the bench. I did not move. I breathed in. I breathed out. My hands were still. They were clean. They had been scrubbed. The soap burned. I thought of water. I thought of the river behind the abbey. It was still. The water was dark. It moved slowly. It did not care about me.

A key turned. The door opened. Sister Agatha stood there. She wore white. Her face was pale. Her eyes were hard.

"Get up," she said.

I stood. My legs shook. I stopped them. I looked at her. She did not look back. She walked out. I followed. We walked down the hall. The stones were wet. The air smelled of damp wool. We passed the chapel. The candles were out. The saints watched us. They did not blink.

We entered the hall. The other sisters were there. They sat in rows. They held their needles. They stitched. The thread pulled tight. They did not look up. They saw me. They looked away.

Agatha sat at the head. She held a ledger. The paper was white. The ink was black. She looked at me.

"Martha," she said.

"Yes," I said.

"Sit."

I sat. The bench was hard. I kept my back straight. I looked at the floor. The dust motes danced in the light. They were tiny. They were alive.

"Why did you do it?" Agatha asked.

I did not answer. I thought of the book. It was under my mattress. It was old. It was mine. My mother gave it to me. It was not a book of prayer. It was a book of herbs. It was a book of roots. It was a book of life.

"I read," I said.

"Read?" Agatha’s voice rose. "You read forbidden texts."

"They are not forbidden," I said. "They are true."

"Truth is defined by the Order," Agatha said. "You know this. You have known this for ten years. You were obedient. You were silent. You were good. Why now?"

I looked at the sisters. They watched me. Their eyes were soft. They were kind. But they were afraid. They were not with me. They were against me. I felt alone. I was always alone.

"My mother is dead," I said.

Agatha closed the ledger. Her hand was steady.

"I know," she said. "We prayed for her. We sent a letter. She died in the winter. She was sick. We did what we could. We did what was right."

"You did not send the letter," I said.

The room went quiet. The needles stopped. The silence was heavy. It pressed on my chest.

"Check the records," I said. "Look for the letter. It is not there. You kept it. You kept it to keep me here. You needed a nurse. You needed someone to cut the hair. You needed someone to scrub the floors. You used her death. You used my grief. You trapped me."

Agatha’s face changed. It was not anger. It was pity. It was worse than anger.

"You are tired, Martha," Agatha said. "Grief clouds the mind. You are not well. You have been ill for days. You have not eaten. You have not slept. Your mind is a mess. You accuse the Order. You accuse us. This is the sickness talking."

"No," I said. "I am clear. I am awake. I see the walls. I see the bars. I see you."

"You see nothing," Agatha said. "You see your own desire to leave. You want to go to the river. You want to be free. But freedom is a lie. Freedom is chaos. Order is safety. Order is love. We love you. We keep you safe. We keep you from the world. The world is cruel. The world will eat you."

"I am not a child," I said.

"You are a sister," Agatha said. "You are part of us. You belong here. You belong to God. You belong to the house. Do not fight it. It is too late. You are already part of the stone. You are already part of the wall."

I looked at the river in my mind. The water was cold. The water was clear. It flowed past the rocks. It did not stop. It did not wait. It carried the leaves. It carried the branches. It carried the light.

"I do not belong here," I said.

Agatha stood. She walked to the door. She opened it. The rain came in. It was cold. It smelled of earth.

"Go to your cell," she said. "You will fast. You will pray. You will mend. You will be well. You will be good. You will be safe."

She left. The door closed. The lock clicked. I was alone.

I did not go to my cell. I stayed in the hall. I sat on the bench. I watched the dust. I watched the light. The light was fading. The shadows grew. The sisters looked at me. They did not stitch. They watched. They waited.

I stood. I walked to the window. I put my hand on the glass. It was cold. It was smooth. I pressed hard. The glass did not break. It was strong. It was solid. It was there.

I looked at my hand. It was red. It was sore. I had cut it. I did not know when. I looked at the blood. It was bright. It was warm. It was mine.

I thought of my mother. She had hands like mine. She had eyes like mine. She had a voice like mine. She was not here. She was in the ground. She was in the rain. She was in the river.

I looked at the sisters. They were not people. They were shadows. They were echoes. They were part of the wall.

I walked to the center of the hall. I stood still. I closed my eyes. I opened them. I was still here. I was still in the hall. I was still in the rain.

I spoke. My voice was low. It was quiet. But it was clear.

"I am not yours," I said.

The sisters looked up. Agatha came back. She stood in the door. She looked at me. She did not speak. She looked at my hand. She looked at the blood.

"You are hurt," she said.

"Yes," I said.

"Let us heal you," she said.

"No," I said.

"Why?" Agatha asked.

"Because I am not hurt," I said. "I am awake."

Agatha’s face was still. She did not move. She did not blink. She looked at the sisters. The sisters looked at the floor.

"Take her," Agatha said.

Two sisters stood. They walked to me. They grabbed my arms. They were strong. They were cold. They pulled me. I did not resist. I let them pull me. I let them drag me. I let them carry me.

I walked with them. I did not run. I did not scream. I did not cry. I walked. My feet hit the stone. The sound was small. The sound was steady.

We walked down the hall. We passed the chapel. We passed the library. We passed the garden. The garden was locked. The plants were dry. The flowers were dead.

We entered my cell. It was small. It was dark. It was silent. They put me in the bed. They tied my wrists. They tied my ankles. I was still. I was quiet.

Agatha sat on the chair. She looked at me. She held a cup. The cup was white. The liquid was dark.

"Drink," she said.

"I will not," I said.

"Drink," she said.

I looked at the cup. I looked at Agatha. I looked at the wall. The wall was old. The wall was cracked. The crack was small. The crack was deep.

I thought of the river. The river was not here. The river was everywhere. The river was in the crack. The river was in the stone. The river was in me.

I took the cup. I did not drink. I held it. I looked at Agatha.

"Let me go," I said.

Agatha smiled. It was a small smile. It was a sad smile.

"You are not going," she said. "You are here. You are home. You are safe."

I put the cup down. I looked at the ceiling. The plaster was white. The plaster was clean. The plaster was empty.

I waited. The clock ticked. The rain tapped. The night came. The darkness grew. I was alone. I was still. I was mine.

The door opened. Agatha left. The lock clicked. I was alone.

I closed my eyes. I breathed in. I breathed out. I felt the stone. I felt the cold. I felt the silence. I felt the rain.

I was not free. I was not trapped. I was here. I was now. I was Martha.

The rain stopped. The silence was deep. The silence was full. I was in the silence. I was in the light. I was in the dark. I was in the river.

I opened my eyes. The room was dark. The room was still. I was alive. I was awake. I was here.