The sky over Naples turned black. At night, the church was as quiet as a coffin. Candles crackled softly at the icons and the faces of the saints looked at you sternly and a little ominously.

The high dome made every sound echo: when you walked, or even when you breathed.

Suddenly, from the dense darkness from the side of the benches, a voice as thick as flower honey was heard.

—The sinner wants to repent, sweet Suora.