The dim light of the single candle flickered across the wooden pews, casting long shadows that stretched like fingers toward the altar. The church was empty now, the last echoes of evening prayer long faded, leaving only the hush of old wood and incense. I knelt in the front row, habit pooled around me, hands clasped so tightly my knuckles ached. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat louder than the last.
I had come here to confess.
Not to the carved screen of the confessional, not through the lattice that kept our faces safely apart. Tonight I needed him to see me—really see me—when the words left my mouth.
Father Elias appeared from the sacristy door, still in his black cassock, the white collar stark against the dark fabric. He moved with that quiet certainty I had watched for
