The church was empty. It was just me, the candles and the rain tapping against a stained glass like a restless child.

It had been storming since dusk, an unending curtain off water from a bruised sky.

I sat in the confessional with my hands folded loosely in my lap and my eyelids heavy, but not from a lack of sleep.

It had been a long day with two funerals, a hospital visit and a broken boiler in the rectory.

I just started to think I might close early when I heard the door at the back of the sanctuary open.

A gust of wet air followed someone in, along with hesitant footsteps, much different from a regular

parishioness confident pace. I straightened. Then the curtain slid aside. I heard the soft squish of wet

fabric as they settled on the opposite side of the confessional. Then a faint rasp of his breath

and how his weight shifted, like someone fighting the instinct to bolt.

Finally, he spoke, low and unsure, but clear.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

The ritual took over.

My voice came easily and automatic, though something in my chest had tightened.

God is always watching my son, I said, speak freely.

The Lord offers mercy to all who seek it.

At first, he said nothing in return.

Yet the way the air changed betrayed his lack of response.

I knew then that he was going to tell me something, and it wasn't going to be easy. His voice came again,

steadier now, like he had stepped back into the safety of memory. I grew up on a farm, he said,

just me and my mama, out past the river bend, where the road turns to gravel.

We had no neighbours close enough to wave to.

He exhaled slowly.

...