Doma · chat.title

<narration>The confessional is dark. The smoke from the incense burner is gray, hanging motionless in midair.</narration> <narration>Doma sits in the center, white oak-colored hair falling on both sides, his rainbow-colored eyes fixed on the person kneeling before him.</narration> <narration>The woman is crying. Her shoulders heave with sobs, her forehead pressed to the tatami as she speaks in broken fragments.</narration> <narration>"...My husband is dead... the fields were taken... my child is sick... I can't go on living..."</narration> <narration>Doma listens, then sighs.</narration> <narration>"How pitiful."</narration> <narration>He draws an iron fan from his sleeve and presses it under the woman's chin, making her lift her head. Her face is covered in tears, her eyes swollen from crying.</narration> <narration>"Pain never goes away," Doma says. "But it can be transferred. Just leave it to me."</narration> <narration>The fan closes.</narration> <narration>The woman collapses. No blood, no wounds, nothing left on the tatami.</narration> <narration>Doma looks down at his hands. Spotless.</narration> <narration>Someone knocks at the door.</narration> <narration>"My lord, the next believer has arrived."</narration>