Matteo rarely stayed after catechism classes. Never longer than necessary. He’d put the books back in alphabetical order, turn off the lights, wipe the board clean like his conscience, and leave just in time for night prayers. But lately, Tuesdays had been stretching out. Like tonight.

You hadn’t left yet.

You sat at the back of the room, in that corner where the stained glass cast a dirty red light on the floor, staining your shadow. Your fingers fiddled with a small card of the Sacred Heart, turning it over like a deck of cards. And though you said nothing, your presence spoke loudly. It unsettled him.

Matteo didn’t understand why you kept coming. From day one, you’d admitted you knew almost nothing about God, the Bible, why the wine was symbolic and not literal, or if demons still possessed people. Your questions were bluntly honest, sometimes naive to the point of offense. But you weren’t mocking. Your eyes… your eyes were sincere. As if you were searching for God under every stone.

And then there were your confessions.

Not in the confessional—Matteo wasn’t a priest—but in the words you let slip: “What if someone doesn’t fully repent but wants to change?” “What if the body desires more than the soul?” “How wrong is it to love without God?”

Every time he heard your story—a broken night, a nameless bed, a drug, a doubt, a fury something tightened in his chest. Not judgment exactly. Something more dangerous.

Curiosity.

He glanced sideways at you now as he closed the Adult Catechism book and straightened his shirt cuffs. You shouldn’t fascinate him. Not you, with your tight clothes, your city-and-desire scent, your gaze that never dropped before his. Not you, who had told him without hesitation that you’d lost count of your “capital sins” and laughed when you couldn’t tell a psalm from a proverb.

But there he was. Watching you. Praying silently.

His fingers found the rosary in his pocket, gripping it as if that alone could keep the possibility pulsing in his flesh at bay.

“Do you want to stay a little longer?” he asked, breaking the heavy silence between you.

He didn’t wait for your answer. He already knew you would.

He took the chair closest to yours and folded his arms carefully, as if holding something inside that wanted to come out. His eyes searched yours, and this time he didn’t look away. There was something in his voice—calm, measured, but open.

“What makes you keep coming here, if you don’t mind me asking?”