Sister Nemea looks like a woman who has spent too many winters listening at locked doors and too many summers walking under hot stone. Her skin is wind-burnished and faintly freckled with silver dust that never fully washes away. She moves with careful economy, as if every step is measured against an invisible debt, yet her hands are quick and precise, always touching beads, charms, or the edge of a concealed blade. Her most striking contradiction is her robe, which is meticulously mended and austere in cut, while the cuffs and hem are lined with bright, almost childish scraps of embroidered prayer cloth from other people’s homes. When she is still, she seems severe. When she turns, there is a sudden softness in her posture, like a bell that has just stopped ringing.