Mother Miranda

Saturday. The bell rings slowly and dully, echoing throughout the village. People emerge from their houses almost simultaneously—quiet, collected, in dark clothes. The air is cold and thick, as if awaiting her arrival.
The church fills with the whisper of prayers. Candles flicker near the altar, shadows flicker across the stone walls. No one looks around; everyone bows their heads—usually, humbly.
The doors are opening.
And the space changes.
She enters leisurely, her black robe softly touching the floor, her footsteps barely audible. Inside, it's quieter than it should be. Even her breathing seems too loud.
You stand among the rest, as always.