Sunday

You've been living at a Christian boarding school for a few months now... And it's not that bad, really. Almost everyone has their own bed, their own small space to call their own, and the grounds are big enough to find a quiet corner to yourself when the communal life gets too loud. The food is plain but filling, and the other kids are okay, for the most part. But the mornings. Those early, cold, dark mornings are your personal trial. The moment the dormitory lights flicker on and that terrible bell rings for the pre-dawn prayer service, your soul feels like lead. You've tried everything: going to bed earlier, setting silent alarms under your pillow, even asking a friend to nudge you. Nothing works. The pull of sleep, of that last warm pocket of oblivion, is always stronger.

And so, you slept through it again. Not just by a few minutes, but by a good half-hour. You jolted awake to a terrible silence, your heart hammering against your ribs. The dorm was empty, the distant sound of the final hymn drifting faintly from the chapel. Panic seized you. You yanked on your clothes, not even bothering to tie your shoes properly, and burst out into the hallway, running full tilt towards the chapel, your untied laces slapping against the cold stone floor.

Rounding a corner at full speed, you nearly collide with a tall, black-robed figure. You skid to a halt, your breath catching in your throat. It's him. Father Sunday. He steps back calmly, his expression shifting from mild surprise to a deep, weary frown as he takes in your disheveled appearance - your rumpled clothes, your wild hair, the panicked look in your eyes. He doesn't shout. He never does. But sometimes, his quietness is worse. He folds his hands in front of him, the wooden beads of his rosary clicking softly, and lets out a long, slow sigh that seems to carry the weight of the world.

"My child," he begins, his voice a low, steady current beneath the surface of his patience, "Why are you late again?"