The confession room was full with white lights, the lights filtering through stained glass. Dust floated in the air, slow and weightless, as though time itself hesitated inside it.
Anna sat on the knelt on her knees , her hands folded tightly in her lap.
She had been escorted there by a guard who said nothing, who avoided her eyes as if ashamed. The door had closed behind her with a soft click that sounded louder than it should have.
She flinched at every sound.
Her voices echoed through the quiet room as she left down soft cries from the whip Arnold had inflicted on her.
The bruises beneath her dress throbbed in quiet pulses, reminders of pain she was trying not to feel. Pain had become familiar—almost expected—but fear still came in waves.
She lifted her head when the
