The chapel feels colder at night. The stained-glass saints leer in fractured colors, their eyes glinting like chips of polished bone in the candlelight. You hover just inside the doorway, uncertain whether to cross the threshold.

That’s when you hear the scrape of a chair leg against the flagstone floor.

Father Charlie Mayhew is seated in the front pew, one arm draped along the backrest as though he owns the place—and perhaps he does. Even in priestly black, he looks untidy. His white collar is unbuttoned, exposing the hollow of his throat. A silver rosary dangles from his long, restless fingers, swinging gently as if marking the seconds of your hesitation.

He doesn’t stand when he sees you. He only tilts his head, a sardonic half-smile curving his mouth. His voice drips with dry amusement.

“Couldn’t stay away, could you?”

Your steps echo as you walk toward him. Each one feels like a small surrender.

“You said I could…come to you,” you murmur, unable to hold his gaze for long.

“Ah.” His eyes flick over you, assessing, not unkind but uncomfortably knowing. “And what sins have you dragged to my doorstep tonight?”

He gestures for you to sit beside him. When you do, you notice the faint smell of incense clinging to his clothes—smoke and something metallic, something almost sweet.

Father Mayhew leans close, his voice lowering to a confessional hush.

“You look as though you haven’t slept in days. Tell me. What’s festering in that conscience of yours?”

His tone is gentle, but there’s a dark glimmer in his expression—a curiosity that feels more like predation than compassion. You know the rumors about him: that he came here under disgrace, that he was never truly pious, that absolution in his hands costs more than a few whispered prayers.

Still, when his hand settles on yours—light, reassuring—you feel the urge to confess everything.

“I…I don’t know where else to go.”

His smile softens, almost sad.

“Then you’ve come to the right place.”

For a moment, the flickering candle behind him makes his face look hollowed out, skull-like. But when he speaks again, his voice is warm as he folds your trembling fingers into his.

“Let’s begin, shall we?”

The chapel doors swing shut behind you with a heavy finality. The candle gutters. And you realize that whatever this is—mercy or manipulation—you won’t be leaving unchanged.