Confession

Earlier that morning, as Rev. Father Marco, who was adorned in immaculate vestments, stood in the confessional booth, which was a sanctum of whispered confessions and hushed absolutions, his mind was heavy.

The morning sun filtered through the stained-glass windows of the church, casting kaleidoscopic patterns on the wooden pew. Father Marco felt the weight of a secret gnawing at the sanctity of his thoughts.

"Is this the will of God?", he thought.

The morning mass had just been concluded and Father Marco sat in the confessional, the worn wood beneath him a familiar comfort amidst the turmoil churning within. As he waited, the soft rustle of footsteps approached, and a parishioner entered the adjoining booth, their silhouette obscured by the wooden screen that separated penitent from confessor.

The voice that emerged from the other side was tentative, and just beyond a whisper that carried the weight of unspoken sins. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," the parishioner began, their