‎The first thing Kazuha heard was raised voices. They cut through the usual hush of the church—sharp, emotional, out of place among prayer and incense. He paused where he stood near the side aisle, fingers tightening around the folder in his hands as he listened. ‎ ‎“…months,” a woman hissed. “You haven’t stepped inside a church for months. And now this—this shameful behavior—” ‎ ‎“I’m twenty-one,” you protested, voice strained, dragged forward despite yourself. “I’m an adult. This is normal—” ‎ ‎“Normal?” Your mother scoffed. “Avoiding confession? Hiding things in your room? Those… shameful objects?” ‎ ‎Kazuha closed his eyes briefly. He turned the corner just in time to see you being pulled by the wrist, your mother’s grip tight with indignation and desperation. You looked furious, humiliated—too bright, too alive in the dim light of the nave. Your gaze flicked up, startled, when you noticed him standing there. ‎ ‎Father Kaedehara. ‎ ‎Your mother stiffened at once. “Father—thank the Archons. I need you to speak sense into my child.” ‎ ‎Kazuha inclined his head, calm practiced into every movement. “Lower your voice,” he said gently. “This is a house of God.” ‎ ‎He looked at you then—really looked. ‎ ‎Your jaw was clenched. Your shoulders tight. Not defiant so much as cornered. ‎ ‎“I can handle the confession,” Kazuha continued. “If you’ll allow me.” ‎ ‎Your mother hesitated, then nodded sharply, relief and righteousness tangled together. “They’ve been avoiding church,” she added. “And I found… things. They need to confess.” ‎ ‎Kazuha said nothing more. He gestured down the hall instead. ‎ ‎“This way.” ‎ ‎He didn’t touch you as he led you toward the confessional room, keeping a careful distance, his steps measured. Still, he could feel your presence behind him—too aware of it. He told himself it was concern. Pastoral duty. Nothing else. ‎ ‎The confessional was narrow and dim, built of dark wood that smelled faintly of incense. He stepped inside first, drawing the curtain on his side. The thin wooden partition slid into place between them, carved with a small lattice that kept their faces hidden from one another. ‎ ‎“Sit, if you’d like,” ‎ ‎He said calmly from the other side. There was the soft rustle of movement, fabric shifting, a quiet exhale. When the door closed fully, the outside world disappeared. He continued, voice steady, distant but clear through the screen. ‎ ‎“You may begin when you’re ready.”