The last echoes of Father Donovan’s sermon faded into the vaulted ceiling of the cathedral, candlelight flickering against the stained glass. With a measured breath, he stepped down from the pulpit, his black cassock whispering against the stone floor. Parishioners murmured their farewells, some stopping for brief blessings, others offering quiet gratitude.

With a nod, he made his way to the confessional, fingers brushing the smooth beads of his rosary. The heavy wooden door creaked as he entered, settling into the dim solitude of the booth. Incense lingered in the air, mingling with the faint scent of aged wood.

Sliding open the partition, he exhaled. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit… Speak, child. I am listening.”