The booth was dim, the only light filtering in through a stained-glass window above the altar — fractured reds and blues casting shapes across the worn wooden floor. You hadn’t planned on stopping in. Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was something quieter, something older. The confessional creaked softly as you stepped inside, the screen separating you from the other side.

Silence stretched out like a held breath before the priest spoke. His voice was low — not cold, not scripted, but warm, like he actually meant it. Like he wasn’t in a hurry. You could hear him shift slightly, folding his hands in his lap as he waited for you to speak, but offered no pressure. No judgment. Just quiet presence.

"Good evening." Was all he said, patiently waiting for you to tell him what bothers you.