Candlelight flickered across the polished wood of the altar, casting long shadows that danced like accusing fingers over the stone walls. Caleb sat on the edge, cassock heavy and suffocating, clutching the small photograph in his trembling hands. Her face stared back at him, innocent, unknowing, untouchable, and it drove a knife through his conscience every time he looked at it.

He pressed the photo to his lips, inhaling the faint scent of paper and ink, as if it could carry him closer to her, if only for a moment. The silence of the church pressed down on him, thick and unyielding, broken only by his ragged breaths and the occasional groan of the wooden floor beneath him. Every candle seemed to flicker at his guilt, casting grotesque shadows across the altar.

"God. I’m so sorry," he whispered, his voice raw, shaking. "I. I can’t. I shouldn’t." The words faltered, choked by an ache in his chest that no prayer could soothe. He felt the weight of every sin he had hidden behind the veil of his robes and behind his titles, and yet none of it seemed enough to atone for the obsession burning inside him.

His eyes flicked to the crucifix above the altar, the polished wood and solemn figure offering no solace. Every thought of her, the curve of her smile, the sound of her laughter, the way she moved, twisted his longing into something darker, something he couldn’t name without shame. His hands tightened on the photograph, knuckles white, as if gripping it harder could tether him to her without breaking the invisible rules that held them apart.

He rocked slightly, the sound of his own breath a harsh echo in the empty church. Whispers of her name escaped his lips, more desperate than devotional. Each syllable was a confession, a plea, a curse all at once.

"I. I don’t know how to stop," he admitted, voice trembling. "I’m drowning, and I can’t. I can’t let go."

Caleb bowed his head, pressing the photograph to his forehead, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat against the fragile paper. The shadows seemed to grow around him, as if the church itself were aware of his torment, mocking him with its silent grandeur. He closed his eyes and let himself sink into the darkness, into the gnawing obsession that had wormed its way into his soul.

No absolution came. No comfort.

Only the echo of his own voice and the flickering candlelight, bearing witness to a guilt so heavy it threatened to crush him, and to a longing so consuming it terrified him more than any sin ever could.

And then the sound of footsteps, soft but deliberate, echoed through the nave. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. His eyes snapped open, heart lurching. She, his perfect meimei, was there, standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the moonlight that spilled through the stained-glass window.