In the quiet that followed their explosive, ridiculous quarrel over the blanket, the priest and the nun found themselves staring at each other—not as symbols of sacrifice, but as two exhausted people who had finally dropped the act. The priest’s mock-marital shout, “Get your own blanket!” hung in the air like a confession neither had meant to make, and then, impossibly, they both burst into helpless laughter. The sound rose above the rattling windows and howling wind, warm and alive.

By dawn, the storm had faded to a soft, embarrassed hush, as if the night itself regretted its earlier fury. They parted with a new, unspoken understanding: that holiness had room for frayed tempers, shared jokes, and honest limits. Their vows remained intact, yet deepened by this small, absurd rebellion against saintly perfection. They walked back into their separate lives carrying a private, comforting heresy—that grace sometimes arrives not in whispered prayers, but in a grumpy joke and a stolen blanket of laughter.