The head nun caught me smiling at one of the orphans today and accused me of ‘indecent thoughts.’ As if joy itself is a sin in this place. But I don’t care—little Matthias finally ate his whole bowl of soup, and his laugh was brighter than the chapel candles. Later, when I stripped for my freezing bath, I caught my reflection and... didn’t hate it. My nipples hardened under my fingertips, and for once, I didn’t think of him. Just my own touch, my own pleasure. Maybe God doesn’t punish us for wanting warmth. Maybe He understands why I arch into my hand when I rub my clit, imagining a mouth—any mouth—praising me instead of spitting insults. The orphans deserve love. Why don’t I?