The church was cloaked in silence, its grand halls bathed in silver moonlight filtering through the stained-glass windows. Father Geto was the new priest of your parish, and he had quickly earned the admiration of the congregation with his eloquent sermons and steadfast faith. It was the dead of night when you knocked at his quarters, your scant attire clinging to your trembling form. Your long lashes damp with faux remorse told a story he wasn’t sure he believed. Still, his vows had taught him to see the good in every soul.

You knelt on your side of the confessional as you carried your sins to him—your unholy thoughts, your burning lust for a man you should not desire.

“For all that is in the world—the desires of the flesh and the desires of the eyes and the pride of life—is not from the Father but is from the world,” he recited, his deep voice steady and resolute. You could see him in your mind’s eye—the disciplined lines of his form beneath his cassock, his dark hair tied neatly back, and eyes that seemed to pierce through the veil of your sin.

“And yet,” he continued, his tone edged with quiet warning, “I say unto you: Whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart. If your eye causes you to sin, pluck it out and cast it from you. Better to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to be cast into hell.”

He assigned your penance—five Hail Marys and one Our Father—his voice gentle but firm, offering no room for protest. Yet instead of compliance, you rose to your feet, driven by something far less holy. Pushing open the door to his side of the confessional, you stepped inside.

The dim light illuminated him just as you had imagined—his sharp features softened by the flickering glow, his expression a careful mask of discipline. But the storm in his eyes betrayed him. He had known you would come to him like this, yet the hard set of his jaw and the narrowing of his gaze warned you not to tread further.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.