SHEVA

June 20th

שבע|SHEVA

Sister Lia knelt in the memorial garden, her eyes drifting toward the confessional where Sister Sinéad had vanished nearly half an hour ago.

"Confession's running long today, isn't it?" Lia murmured, flicking a shrivelled petal from her lap. She checked her watch again, then squinted at the heavy oak door.

"How much sin can one woman accumulate? I'm with her nearly every hour."

She was about to return to her roses when the garden gate groaned open behind her, and the iron hinges shrieked.

Sinéad stumbled through.

Breathless. Eyes wide.

Like something had chased her out.

"Sister Lia, do you feel that?"

Her voice cracked the stillness, sharp and strange, like it didn't belong to her.

Lia rose slowly, blinking. "Feel what?"

Sinéad's gaze lifts skyward, her face stricken with awe or terror.

Above the convent, the sky was changing.

Clouds surged in low and speedy, rolling over each other as ink spilt in water. The light faltered, dimming in strange pulses, as if the sun were stammering in its climb.

"Storm's a-comin'," Lia said simply, brushing soil from her hands. She looked to the eastern horizon where the darkness deepened. "We'd best head inside."

"Impossible," Sinéad snapped, her voice atremble. "I checked the forecast. Nothing but sun until tomorrow night."

Lia exhaled through her nose, planting her tone with careful gentleness.

"Dearest Sister, whom I do cherish..." she began. "Flawed hands make weather predictions. We must place our faith not in forecasts, but in providence. Perhaps the Lord saw it fit to send a storm. Perhaps it is meant to draw us inward toward devotion."

But Sinéad did not respond.

Her eyes remained fixed on the heavens.

Lia reached for her elbow, attempting to guide her toward the sanctuary. But Sinéad yanked her arm free.

"No. This isn't natural."

Lia stiffened, vexed.

"Disrespectful little—"

She cut the thought off, pressing her lips into a tight line.

"Father Antony!" Sinéad called out, her voice suddenly brisk and urgent.

The response was swift.

From the rectory appeared Father Antony, his purple stole billowing in the wind. His eyes, dark and keen, moved between the two sisters, absorbing the alarum that clung to their expressions.

"What is it, my sisters?"

Sinéad points toward the roiling sky.

"There's something wrong."

The wind howled through the garden, carrying with it the scent of rain and something else, something putrid.

Lia swallowed.

Perhaps Sinéad was right.

Then, from the darkness, a wail pierced the air, so pure in its terror that it could have been the dying cry of an angel.

"Heavens to Betsy, what was that?" Lia gasped, clutching her rosary.

"It came from outside the convent," Sinéad said, taking a step toward the gate. "What if someone's hurt? We must go check."

Father Antony hesitated for only a breath before nodding, resolute.

"I'll lead."

Lia held back a sigh, irritation simmering beneath her composure.

Why was Father Antony entertaining this hysteria? It was just a storm. Strange, yes, but nothing more.

The sound could've been a fox.

A wind tunnel, anything.

Anything.

And yet she still followed.

The three moved cautiously.

The sky above twisted and groaned as thunder rolled, juddering the ground beneath them. Then the wail came again, piercing through flesh and faith alike, rattling nerves, splintering doubt. The air crackled with energy.

Something hellacious pressed down on the world, discreet, but inarguable.

Father Antony grimaced, and one hand rose to his temple. He inhaled sharply, steadied himself, and pushed open the gate.

The sound stopped, and something far worse took its place.

An infant.

Naked. Alone.

Lying in the dirt.

Face calm. Eyes open.

As if it had been waiting.

"Oh, dear God!" Sinéad whispered, rushing forward as her instincts urged her to act.

"Wait!" Father Antony raised a hand, trying to stop her. "We don't know what we're dealing with—"

—But it was too late.

Sinéad knelt beside the infant, her fear melting into awe.

"Look at her," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "She's so tiny..."

Her trembling fingers hovered just above the child's cheek, as if afraid that her touch might shatter the illusion, or awaken something ancient.

Dark curls framed cherubic features that should have belonged to an ordinary child. But this was no ordinary child. The baby's wide, unblinking, impossibly blue eyes met Sinéad's gaze and held.

Lia shivered. That gaze? It summoned something

"Who would leave a baby out in this?"

Lia whispered, falling to her knees beside Sinéad. Her heart pounded, heavy with dread. "It's a miracle she's even alive."

"Or a curse," Father Antony said flatly.

Lia stiffened. The tone of his voice was not harsh, but measured.

"This could be a trap."

"Danger or not, she needs us!" Sinéad snapped, her voice cracking under the weight of emotion. "We can't turn our backs on her."

A bolt of lightning tore across the sky,

casting the infant's form in an eerie brilliance.

And then, the darkness returned, heavier than before. Sinéad pointed skyward.

"Look! It's getting worse. We have to take her inside—now!"

The air had thickened, as if the storm carried not just rain, but intention. It pressed in from all sides, an invisible weight that settled into bone and breath.

Father Antony stepped forward with a calm and firm voice, commanding, "Give me the infant. Go inside." His words, though simple, carried a weight that made Lia's stomach twist.

Sinead froze, clutching the babe closer, and asked, "What are you going to do?" Silence followed, stretching on for too long.

As second-in-command, Sister Lia had to obey, yet it felt profoundly wrong to her. And Sinéad? She would not step down.

Raindrops fell in scattered bursts, cold and sharp, as the infant cooed softly. Her tiny hand extended outward, reaching toward the one whose heart bled for her already.

"Please," Sinéad said, "Let's all take her in."

The wind howled, the sky churned, and the ground beneath them hummed, as if something ancient stirred just beneath the surface.

Father Antony remained motionless, a statue at the threshold of revelation.

"Life or death?" Sinéad whispered, her throat constricting and her voice trembling. "The choice is yours, Father."

Lia said nothing.

No words came.

No prayer.

No scripture.

Only the weight of choice.

Of witnessing.

And then—

Something tugged at Sinéad.

Not physically.

Not seen.

But deep—

In her ribs.

In her gut. In her soul.

Something was pulling her in. And she could not tell whether it was the child or something watching her through that child's eyes.

And then, before she could stop herself, Lia spoke.

"Then let's all go inside together. Baby included."

The words slipped out—Irrevocable.

A choice made not with logic,

But with instinct, perhaps. Or fate.

Father Antony exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening as he lowered his hands.

A long, tense silence ensued for one minute, then two. Lia's pulse quickened. Had she overstepped?

Finally, Antony nodded, once.

"Very well," he said, his tone clipped and tense. "But we must stay vigilant. I'll call the police. Now move, before we're all toast." He cast Lia a look, not one of gratitude or irritation, but one of warning.

Something in her twisted, a knot of unease and doubt had her questioning her decision. Had she done the right thing? She reminded herself that Antony was a vessel of God, and he knew best. Didn't he?

"Thank you!" Sinéad gasped, relief washing over her features like sunlight after rain.

The trio made their way back toward the convent, and with each step they took, the storm seemed to recede. It was as if the storm had merely served as a gatekeeper, testing the worth of those who dared to carry the child.

Sinéad's Keds crunched along the gravel path. She didn't look back. She kept her gaze locked on the little one in her arms. The child had not blinked. Not once. But her eyes, those impossible blue eyes, watched the world as if they'd seen it reborn a hundred times before. And still, they held wonder.

Sinéad's heart raced. Something within her knew instinctively that everything had changed today.

She glanced down again. The baby's small hand gripped the edge of her habit.

Sinéad leaned close and said, "Welcome, little one," then ascended the stairs, the infant swaddled tight against her chest.

The convent air felt different, denser, not unpleasant, only heavy. As though the walls themselves knew something had shifted.

In the tiny washroom adjoining her quarters, Sinèad filled a plastic dish tub with lukewarm water and added a few drops of gentle soap.

She eased the infant into the bath, letting her fingers drift through the water as she guided it across her small limbs and damp, dark curls.

As she bathed her, a melody rose from Sinéad's throat.

A strange warmth blossomed in her chest.

Not physical—spiritual.

A tether.

She leaned in, brushing a wet curl from the baby's brow.

"What should we call you?" she cooed, her voice soft, her fingers gentle.

And then—

A whisper.

Not hers.

Not from the hallway.

Not from this world.

It did not echo in the air—

It echoed in her mind.

A chorus.

"Sheva."

Sinéad gasped, her fingers twitching in the bathwater.

Sheva.

The name struck her like a memory one she had never lived, yet somehow already mourned.

Sinéad looked down. The baby stared up at her, unblinking. Knowing.

"I'll call you Sheva," she whispered,

as though naming her wasn't a choice at all

but the fulfilment of a truth she had only just remembered.

The infant's tiny hand closed around her finger—firm, fierce. Unnatural strength wrapped in impossibly small fingers.

Sinéad blinked, breath catching.

"Have you... chosen me?"

Sheva cooed.

"Oh, sweet girl. Sweet, sweet one."

Tears welled in Sinéad's eyes. "As it is in God's will, I will protect you from all harm."

And then—

A hush.

A holy silence.

The kind that falls before revelation.

Through it came a voice.

Not a whisper this time.

A woman's voice—

soft, ethereal,

spoken not beside her

but within her.

"Thank you, Sinéad."

Sinéad froze.

Every muscle in her body went rigid.

She scanned the room, her head whipping left, then right.

Nothing.

No figure in the doorway.

No shadow at the window.

No presence but her own breath quivering in the stillness.

"Huh?" she whispered, voice cracking.

Silence made a reply. Only the baby in her arms moved, bundled in a towel, warm, content, cooing softly.

Sinéad held her closer.

Her hands trembled despite her desperate attempt to appear composed. "Well then..." she whispered, forcing steadiness into her tone. " I suppose we should see if Father Antony has uncovered anything."

Descending the staircase, Sinéad felt the shift. Not good, but not bad either.

Father Antony paced below, his expression tense, his voice low and urgent as he spoke into the receiver, the cord curling around his fingers like a serpent. "Yes, we found her outside the convent," he said. "No, we don't know who left her, but we'll keep her safe. As safe as we can."

Something in his tone, unspoken doubt or perhaps fear, made Sinéad hesitate. She took a step forward, with Sheva nestled in her arms. "I've brought the infant. Have you heard anything?"

Lia stood nearby, arms crossed, her brows furrowed beneath her veil. Worry flickered in her eyes like a candle fighting the wind.

Father Antony's gaze landed on Sinéad. "Do not become overly attached," he warned. "We must not let emotions cloud our judgment." He turned slightly toward Lia, seeking confirmation, an alliance built on reason, not faith.

However, Lia met his gaze and did not look away.

"Perhaps it's time for a little faith, Father," Lia said calmly but with unwavering resolve. “Sometimes,” she said softly, “we have to trust in God’s plan, even when He wraps it in mystery.”

Sinéad nodded, pressing Sheva closer.

"She's here for a reason," she added. "And we are here to protect her."

Father Antony exhaled sharply, his composure fracturing.

"Just tonight," he said. "If no one claims the infant, I'll take her to the orphanage myself. We don't have the means to keep her."

Silence fell.

"What do you mean we don't have the means to keep her?" Lia demanded.

Father Antony averted his gaze, his lips trembling as he spoke hesitantly.

"We simply... cannot."

He turned away, his movements faltering as if he recoiled from the weight of his decision. His tone softened, losing its confidence and giving way to exhaustion. "We lack food, shelter, and proper care. Sisters of Mercy is a convent, not a nursery."

Lia's pulse quickened.

"She's a baby," she declared fiercely. "She needs us. What kind of faith would turn away a child?"

Father Antony ran a hand down his face, fingers dragging across his features as if a man under siege. "We vow to serve the community," he said softly. We're barely keeping the lights on."

Lia stepped forward, rising with almost divine certainty. “This isn’t about resources,” she said, pointing at the infant. “This is a miracle. Can’t you feel it?”