CHAPTER SEVEN
978 Words
The Bishop’s Shadow
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He arrived without warning.
No procession. No choir. Just the low grumble of car tires on gravel and the heavy thud of polished shoes striking the stone path of St. Brigid’s Convent.
Bishop Ambrose.
Silver-haired, eyes like polished glass, and a presence that made even the marble statues seem to shrink in reverence.
He entered the convent with folded hands and a face carved from stone.
“Where is Father Damien?” he asked the moment he stepped through the door.
Sister Bernadette’s lips twitched with restraint. “In the chapel, Your Grace. Preparing for evening prayers.”
“Tell him I will see him in the rectory. Privately.”
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Inside the Chapel…
Damien felt it before he saw it.
That shift in atmosphere. Like the way the air stills before a downpour.
He was lighting the final candle on the altar when Sister Bernadette appeared at the side aisle.
“His Grace is here.”
The candle trembled in his hand.
“Ambrose?”
She nodded. “He wants to speak with you. Alone.”
Damien inhaled sharply and extinguished the flame with his fingers. The brief burn was nothing compared to what was about to come.
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The Rectory Office
The bishop sat behind Damien’s desk, as if reclaiming territory.
“Close the door.”
Damien obeyed.
Ambrose folded his hands and studied him. “You’ve lost weight.”
“Fasting,” Damien said.
“Voluntary, or guilt?”
Silence.
The bishop leaned back.
“There are whispers, Damien.”
“I’m aware.”
“Some say you’ve been… distracted.”
Damien’s hands remained clasped behind his back. “I am human, Your Grace. But my duties remain intact.”
“And what of your soul?” Ambrose asked. “Is that intact?”
Damien didn’t answer.
Ambrose rose, walked around the desk, and stood inches from him. “This assignment was meant to be your redemption. After what happened in Owerri—”
Damien flinched. “That matter was closed.”
“Was it? Or just buried beneath cassocks and silence?”
The air thickened.
“Tell me the truth, Damien.” Ambrose’s voice dropped. “Have you broken your vow?”
Damien’s eyes flickered—but only for a second.
“No,” he said.
The lie scorched his tongue.
The bishop studied him a moment longer, then nodded. “Good. Then you won’t mind if I stay awhile. Hear confessions. Observe.”
Damien forced a smile. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
Ambrose left the office with the same quiet menace he’d entered with.
Damien sagged against the wall, heart hammering like a death bell.
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In the Garden…
Sister Amara knew something had shifted the moment she saw Damien again.
His shoulders were taut, his eyes darker than usual. His hands—always so careful—twitched with tension.
He didn’t speak to her that afternoon. Not even a glance.
By evening prayers, he barely looked up from the pulpit.
And yet, beneath the Latin verses and candlelight, Amara could feel him watching her. Not with longing.
With fear.
Something was wrong.
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Later That Night…
The knock came just before midnight.
Three taps. Then silence.
Amara rose from her cot and padded barefoot to the door of her cell. She opened it slowly—and gasped.
“Father—”
He grabbed her hand. “We don’t have time.”
She followed him without question, through the empty hallways and down the side passage to the library basement — a space unused, silent, and hidden from the others.
When he finally turned to face her, she saw it.
The brokenness.
“They’re watching me,” Damien whispered. “The bishop… he suspects. He knows something.”
Amara’s heart thundered.
“Then we stop,” she said quickly. “We pull away. We act as though nothing ever happened—”
“No,” he cut in. “I mean yes—we must stop. But Amara…” He stepped closer. “I need you to hear this, before they silence me. Before I am taken away, or exiled again.”
“Exiled?” she whispered.
He nodded. “There was… another place. Another time. A mistake. But I never crossed a line—until now.”
He cupped her face gently. “With you, I did. And I don’t regret it. I regret the fear. The shame. But never you.”
She clutched his hand. “Then tell me—what do we do now?”
He stepped back, torn.
“If they separate us… if they send me away… promise me you’ll stay strong.”
She swallowed tears. “I’m not strong without you.”
“You are,” he whispered. “You always were. But if they force me to leave, Amara—don’t follow. Don’t beg. Live. Be free of this torment.”
His voice trembled on that final word.
She kissed his hand, pressed it to her cheek.
“I’ll never be free of you,” she said.
And neither of them noticed the faint creak in the shadows behind the shelf — or the eyes that watched.
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The Next Morning…
Sister Bernadette held a letter in her hand.
She stood outside Amara’s door, unreadable expression on her face.
Amara opened the door slowly.
“There’s to be a reassignment,” Bernadette said flatly. “His Grace has decided Father Damien will leave St. Brigid’s.”
Amara’s heart stopped.
“Where?” she asked.
“To a remote parish in the north. No visitors allowed.”
Amara couldn’t breathe.
“And you,” Bernadette continued, “are to be transferred to Lagos. Effective immediately.”
“No…” Amara’s voice cracked. “He’s separating us.”
Bernadette said nothing.
But the cold in her eyes said enough.
She knew.
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- Writer
