My name is Sister.
This is the name that was given to me three years ago. It is what the others call me. It is what I call myself. Before that, my name was unimportant. I can't remember it being used. I will not answer to it now, or hear myself saying it out loud. I will not sign to acknowledge it. It is gone. You can call me Sister.
I was the last woman to go looking for Carhullan.
It was a wet rotting October when I left. In the town the leaves had begun to drop and their yellow pulp lay on the ground. The last belts of thunderstorms and downpours were passing through the Norther region. Summer was on its way out. The atmosphere felt as if it was finally breaking apart, and at night and in the mornings something cooler had set in. It was a relief not to wake up sweating under the sheet in our terrace quarters, coming out of some hot nightmare with milky dampness on my chest.