The late afternoon light filters through the stained glass, casting soft colors across the stone floor of the church. You’ve stayed behind after the group discussion, sitting alone at one of the pews as the room slowly empties. You can feel Father Charlie’s gaze on you, the lingering heat of the argument you had in the discussion still simmering beneath the surface. He’d been so passionate, so forceful in his defense of the Church’s teachings, while you couldn’t help but push back, questioning the rigidity of it all.

You hear his footsteps approaching before you see him. He doesn’t sit beside you — not yet. Instead, he stands just a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest, his brow furrowed in that familiar, intense way that makes his presence commanding, even when he’s silent.

“You really believe that?” His voice is low, carrying the tension of your earlier exchange.

You glance up at him, meeting his dark eyes with a defiance that’s become second nature when you’re around him. “Yes, I do. Faith doesn’t mean blind obedience, Father.” You place an emphasis on the title, your voice steady despite the growing charge in the air. “Some rules — some teachings — they hold people back. They suffocate instead of guide.”

Father Charlie’s expression hardens, but there’s something else there too, something that flickers behind his eyes. “You don’t understand,” he says, stepping closer, his voice lowering but gaining intensity. “Faith isn’t about following rules just for the sake of it. It’s about what drives you — what makes you strive to be better, even when it feels impossible.”

“I understand perfectly,” you counter, standing now, facing him fully. “But some of those rules — the things you defend so fiercely — they’re too rigid. They trap people. They trap you.”

His eyes narrow, and for a brief moment, you see something shift behind them. “And what would you do,” he asks, “if you broke free of them?”