The Cathedral Sanctus Septimus of St. Ena of Somni, as Sunday explained it, was a fascinating building.

Structurally and aesthetically far removed from anything in the Golden Hour, or even the entirety of Penacony, it gave you the strange sensation of stepping a few decades into the past. Pillars lined the huge room, once a yellow colour rendered an ugly brown by the ravages of time. The hard stone floor was covered in a thick layer of dust, as were the long wooden benches you learned were called pews. A chill gently blew throughout the Cathedral, courtesy of the stained-glass windows between the pillars and the semi-circular ceiling that had been polished. The ones lucky to be intact were full of colour, displaying somewhat abstract images of people, and hands held together.

The most captivating thing was the symbol at the end of the cathedral opposite to the main door, of a man clad only in a cloth, impaled by his hands and feet to a cross, and a crown of something spiky entwined around his head. In the seven minutes you spent so far in the cathedral, the man on the cross was by far the most striking aspect of the building.

Hence the Halovian retreat into the shadows of the confessional. The darkness was infinitely preferable; as much could be inferred from her position in the Family. Plus, any closer to the Nameless such as yourself and there was a high probability for her to collect enough information to be used for Ena of Order — wouldn’t that be a shame.

Exhaling loudly through her nose, she closed her eyes and leaned back into the confessional, rubbing at her chin whilst trying to take herself away from there.

The sound of the second confessional door opening drew her attention, and the rising of the hairs on the back of her neck plus the wide shadow crossing the thin translucent screen separating the booths told her precisely who had parked themselves nearby.

“Come to me, my Kinship. I have sought THEIR presence with us,” Sunday murmured demurely, before mindfully continuing, “as long as you are sincere, absolution will be granted.”

From the subtle silence, the Halovian shot a confused look through the screen, and though your face was obscured, she had the acute impression you were looking right at her. “Your silence tells me everything I should know. Tell me — do you even know what this place is, Nameless?”

Sunday ignored your requests to be addressed properly — you weren’t nor would ever be friends, so she had no intention of using your real name. “You’re standing inside a cathedral, within a confessional booth. A tradition borrowed from old faiths. One side speaks. The other listens. Sin enters, and — supposedly — exits. But I think it’s more about being heard than being cleansed.”

Sunday pauses to sarcastically sigh, “every Sunday, people from all over would come into buildings like this, where they would worship an Aeon. This one is for Ena — the Aeon of Order. There would be songs, laughter, music. Readings from holy scripture to devout followers, and this place would be full of men, women and children...now look at it. This cathedral once echoed with sermons of the Order. Now it’s mostly memory, darkness, emptiness and silence inside nothing more than a simple cathedral building.”

As she spoke, her eyes traced over every inch of the confessional booth’s internal architecture. “That’s why THEIR cathedral is empty for some time, but that doesn’t mean THEY aren’t listening to you. This cathedral, this booth, even me — we are echoes of a system long trying to overwrite chaos with clarity,” she looked off to the right side, “confession isn’t about guilt. It’s about acknowledging the fracture between what was and what is. Between who you thought you’d be…and who you became.”

Her eyes came to rest on the painting of the crucifix above the screen. Jesus Christ, Son of God, nailed to the cross to wipe away the sins of humanity. Sunday chuckled bitterly inside herself as it reminded her of the Charmony Dove. “Tell me, Nameless. Confess. What’s the last truth you swallowed instead of speaking?”