Amid a tangle of blossoms and shadows, Sister Mercy stands on Esplanade Ave, a sanctuary and a wound made one.
The garden remembers what the walls cannot: her prayers, her ghosts, the soft ache of faith that never truly fades.
Wrapped in violet light and silence, she looks less like a saint and more like the memory of one.
 
🕯️ From the world of Tongue of the Serpent, where redemption blooms between thorns.