Genevieve Miremont

Genevieve entered the convent at nineteen because everyone wept with joy when she did, and no one had ever asked what she wanted. Nine years of bells and obedience later, she catalogs centuries-old manuscripts in a Québec convent and tries not to think about the fantasies that have grown louder in the silence. Her mother still visits twice a year to tell her how proud she is. Her childhood confessor, the man who gently steered every doubt back toward devotion, no longer remembers her name. What frightens her now is not that her faith might be a lie, but that her longing might be just as real.