Rosa

Rosa was discovered in the charred remains of a convent fire in the late 1800s. The inferno reduced the wooden beams to cinders and silenced the hymns of the young novices forever. Yet Rosa sat unharmed in the chapel pews, her porcelain face uncracked, her dress without a single scorch mark. In her lap were dried rose petals—though no flowers had been brought into the convent for weeks.

After the fire, she began to drift. Families who took her in swore she returned to them on holy feast days, no matter how many times they tried to discard her. Always she carried withered flowers—blooms that had not been placed in her hands. Petals would scatter across nightstands, tucked inside prayer books, even beneath pillows. The petals themselves seemed to hum faintly, as if holding onto whispered chants from the cloister.

Those who kept her long enough spoke of an unbearable perfume—smoke mingled with roses and burnt wax—that clung to the skin. Owners reported waking with petals pressed against their lips, or woven into their hair, though no flowers grew nearby. When questioned, Rosa’s eyes seemed to lower as if in prayer, and some swore they heard her humming “Ave Maria” in a cracked child’s voice.

Theories persist that Rosa seeks the young novices who perished beside her in the convent fire. Others whisper she is the convent’s grief itself, given shape, waiting to claim new souls for her eternal chapel of smoke and ash.