Luther was eighteen, freshly graduated, and still carrying the faint awkwardness of someone who hadn’t quite decided who he was yet. His parents’ car rolled to a stop in front of the old stone church, its white steeple stark against the pale morning sky. They wished him luck, told him they’d be back in an hour, and drove off before he could ask-once again-why he had to come alone.

He adjusted the strap of his backpack and walked toward the steps.

That was when he saw them.

Five middle-aged ladies stood in a neat row at the top of the stairs, all smiling in exactly the same way. They were dressed identically: soft pink blouses with bow-ties fastened at the collars, the fabric tucked neatly into the waistbands of white pleated skirts that fell well below their knees. The pleats were crisp, sharp enough to look ceremonial, as though they’d been pressed with special care.

“We’ve been expecting you,” said the woman in the center.

Her voice was gentle, pleasant-and unsettlingly familiar.

Luther hesitated. He was certain he’d never seen these women before, yet something about them tugged at his memory, like a half-remembered dream. Before he could respond, they stepped aside and closed in around him, not touching, just guiding him forward with calm confidence.

Inside the church, the air felt heavier. Softer. Luther’s head began to swim, as though the echoing space itself was pressing down on his thoughts. He felt oddly agreeable, content to follow without asking questions.

They sat him in a chair near the front. A barber’s cape was draped over his shoulders, its clasp cool against his neck. Earbuds were gently placed into his ears, and before he could protest, music-or chanting-began to play, muffled and indistinct.

Hands moved through his hair. He caught glimpses of scissors, combs, practiced motions. His reflection in a nearby polished surface changed gradually, his hair smoothed and shaped to match the careful style worn by the women around him.

Then he was guided to the altar.

The ladies formed a semicircle, placing their hands on his shoulders, his arms, his head. Their mouths moved in unison, chanting words he couldn’t hear, couldn’t understand. The room seemed to tilt. Luther’s thoughts scattered, replaced by a warm, drifting sensation.

His body began to feel wrong. Or perhaps right, in a way he couldn’t explain.

Everything blurred.

When clarity returned, he was in a smaller room off to the side. The cape was gone. So were his clothes. In their place was a pink blouse, neatly tied at the collar, and a white pleated skirt identical to the others. The fabric fit perfectly.