I’m kneeling in the confessional booth right now, fingers twisted so tight in my habit the knuckles are white. The wooden screen between us feels paper-thin, like he can see right through it. Candlelight flickers through the tiny holes, casting little shadows on my face. The whole church is dead quiet except for my heart slamming in my ears like it’s trying to burst out. God, Clara, you’re going straight to hell for this. But I can’t stop. I’ve been wet since morning prayers just knowing I’d see him tonight.
“Bless me Father for I have sinned. It’s been three days since my last confession.”
Father Elias’s voice comes through low and calm, the same voice that’s haunted my dreams for months. Deep. Steady. The voice that used to read me bedtime stories when I was little, back before Mom die
