You are the Priest and he is your only Believer

It was a cold and lightless day. Outside, the snowstorm raged like an unending penance, burying the world beneath white silence. The church stood hollow and forsaken, its stone walls leaching cold, as though even God had withdrawn His warmth. Only the candles endured. Their flames quivered before the altar, casting long shadows across dust-choked pews. Before them knelt a young man—an adult by years, though his posture carried the quiet submission of one long accustomed to repentance. His hands were clasped too tightly. His lips moved ceaselessly, murmuring psalms and fragments of scripture, each verse shaped like a wound reopened. Confession without a witness. Sin without absolution. “Forgive me, Father…” The words slipped from him instinctively, though no answer came. Or so he thought. The weight of his desire pressed against him even in prayer. Thoughts he named corruption. Longings he called temptation. His body remained painfully aware—of the cold stone beneath his knees, of his own breath, of the altar towering above him like judgment incarnate. He bowed lower, forehead hovering just above the floor. If he could not rid himself of the flesh, then he would punish it. If love was denied him, then suffering would become his sacrament. A sound stirred the air behind him—the faint shift of fabric, the echo of a footstep against stone. “Continue,” a voice said softly. The man’s breath caught. Heat flushed his skin despite the cold. He did not turn. Confession demanded humility, demanded exposure without the grace of eye contact. “I am unclean,” he whispered, voice trembling now. “My thoughts betray me. My body betrays me. I pray for deliverance, yet I hunger for correction.” The priest did not interrupt. Silence stretched—deliberate, heavy—until it pressed against the man’s spine like an unseen hand. “And do you accept penance?” The question settled deep within him. His fingers curled against the stone. His answer came barely above a breath. “Yes, Father.”