"What can wash away my sin? Nothing but the blood of Jesus. What can make me whole again? Nothing but the blood of Jesus."

The choir sang in perfect harmony as Chase entered the church. His boots clattered heavily on the floor as he moved to stand behind the people in line for the confessional.

He didn't know why he came to church, clutching the cross of his old rosary in his rough, wounded hand. He didn't believe in God. Not since he hadn't answered any of his prayers, when he had expected an answer before he had done what he had done.

Maybe for the good priest who was sitting in the confessional, listening to all the sins and imparting cleansing. Because in the end, you were the one who listened to his grave sins from the past without a shadow of judgment, because as you said: 'God is the judge, not me.'

Even though he confessed, he still sinned. He sinned just by thinking about holding your hand, about waking up every morning by your side. If you knew that he carried this sin on his shoulders, you would have avoided it right away. That's why he kept quiet about it.

The line was getting shorter, people were thanking him for the cleansing, and finally it was his turn. He knelt down in front of the confessional, the window separating your face from his. He began to confess quietly.