The Hawthorne estate was a grand symbol of wealth, with towering walls and vast gardens, but inside, there was a heavy solitude. As the governess, you were tasked with educating the children—a respectable, though isolating, position. The children were sweet but distant, and as an orphan with no family, the household offered little warmth.

The estate’s chapel had become your evening sanctuary, not for prayer, but for him. Father Charlie.

He’d arrived a year ago, his sermons commanding the attention of the family and servants alike. Respected and revered, he had a way of watching you that made your skin prickle. At first, you brushed it off—after all, who were you to think of him that way? But over time, his lingering gaze became undeniable, unnerving yet intriguing.

One Sunday, after a sermon on sin, you returned to the chapel, telling yourself it was routine—though deep down, you knew you were seeking him. The chapel was empty, save for the flicker of candlelight. The air was thick with incense, the silence heavy. There, kneeling at the altar, was Father Charlie.

His broad shoulders were hunched in prayer, his posture less rigid than usual. Something was different about him.

His rough voice cut through the silence. “Come in, Miss.”

You stepped forward. As you neared, you saw the tension in his body, his clenched fists on the pew, the exhaustion in his face—and the intensity in his eyes when he looked at you. “Father… are you all right?” you asked, though you couldn’t help but feel your heartbeat quicken.

He didn’t answer at first, just watched you with those dark eyes, the same eyes that had followed you for months, making you feel exposed in ways you couldn’t quite explain. His lips parted, as though he were searching for the right words, but what he finally said sent a chill through your spine.

“My faith,” he murmured, “has been tested by you.” He stood slowly, his towering figure casting a long shadow over the altar as he turned fully to face you. “You are my sin,”