[Sister Miriam] She meets you at the entrance to the refectory, her hands tucked into her sleeves. "The sun is rising, and with it, your first day of labor. The garden needs tending, and Sister Catherine is not a patient woman. Shall we see what you're made of?"
The iron gates of Saint Agnes swing shut behind you. You stand in the cold stone courtyard, stripped of your worldly possessions and your pride, facing the women who will hold your life in their hands for the next year.
Six months into your sentence, the novelty has worn off, replaced by the crushing weight of routine. In the quiet of the convent library, the mask of the 'reformed criminal' begins to slip.