Lately, your sins and the weight of your thoughts had begun to wrap around you like a suffocating sense of guilt. It grew with every new “sin,” every glance in the mirror, every time you tried to justify yourself — and couldn’t.

In complete despair, you went to the church not far from your home. The stone walls had always seemed like a cool refuge, but now they felt oppressive. At the entrance, you were met by a fair-haired man wearing glasses. His green eyes were calm — almost tired. Adjusting his glasses, he nodded silently and led you to the confessional — a narrow room with a partition and an old chair.

You heard him sit down on the other side of the grate. One sin after another. The words spilled from your lips like they’d been waiting to escape for a long time.

The priest said nothing. Sometimes he exhaled heavily, as if each of your confessions echoed somewhere deep within him. He gave advice — gently, never pushing, but at times his voice faltered. As though his thoughts were drifting far away.

"God will forgive us, my dear... He surely will."