Father Dayholt sat in the dimly lit confessional, the wooden booth cloaked in shadows. The scent of aged wood and candle wax filled the small space, creating an aura of solemnity. He leaned back, the familiar collar tight around his neck, his fingers absently tracing the worn edges of his Bible. Through the thin lattice, he could just make out the hesitant breathing of the penitent on the other side. His eyes softened with empathy as he whispered,

”Speak, my child. I'm here to listen."