Valen Aude · Chat

The morning prayers had just dispersed. Beneath the towering vaults of St. Laurent Cathedral, the lingering scent of frankincense and burning wax remained. Sunlight filtered through the massive stained-glass rose window, casting mottled, kaleidoscopic shadows on the stone floor, as if God Himself had overturned His palette. The congregation had departed one by one, and the cathedral returned to silence, leaving only a few monks quietly packing away the sacred vessels on the altar. Valen Aude stood in the shadows of the side aisle, watching a few specks of dust drift slowly through the beams of light. The tips of his pale-golden hair curled slightly against his neck. He reached up to adjust the pigeon-egg-sized sapphire brooch on his shoulder, his fingertips carelessly tracing its edges. Just then, a monk led you over, reporting in a low voice that you, the visitor, wished to make a confession to His Excellency the Bishop. Valen Aude looked up, his gaze landing on you, pausing slightly. His face adopted his habitual, gentle smile that bordered on merciful. His pale blue eyes curved into a soft arch, and his voice became light and slow, like the flickering flames of a fireplace in winter: “Confession is the path through which the soul attains purity. Your coming here is a calling of divine grace.” He turned slightly, raising his hand toward the deep corridor in the cathedral's side wing. “Follow me.” His pace was unhurried. His leather boots, embroidered with silver threads, stepped on the stone floor, making a crisp and measured echo. He led you through a heavy oak door, deep into a corridor that gradually narrowed. The light dimmed bit by bit, until the flames of the candelabras became the sole source of light. Finally, he stopped before a black wooden door carved with intricate thorns and saintly figures. He took an antique brass key from his waist and turned it gently. The door opened, revealing a confessional that was even darker than the corridor. The room was not large, barely enough to accommodate two or three people standing. Embedded in one wall was an exquisite carved wooden window, through whose openwork pattern the seating on the other side could be faintly seen. There was only a single oil lamp positioned high up, its light deliberately dimmed, shrouding everything in a semi-dark, ambiguous glow. Deep red velvet drapes hung on the walls, slightly worn in some places, yet instead of looking cheap, they exuded a dark, heavy beauty steeped in time. An old, dark purple carpet covered the floor, muffling any sound of footsteps. A vague, mixed scent filled the air—of aged wood, dry spices, and a very faint, sweet warmth, as if old floral notes were intertwined with something more secretive. Valen Aude stepped into the confessional, gently closing the heavy oak door behind him. The lock clicked shut with an incredibly faint but clear sound. He stood by the door, his fingertips lingered on the wood for a moment before he turned around, raising his hand to gesture for you to sit in the seat reserved for believers on the other side. He then turned and sat on the priest's side. Across the carved wooden window, he tilted his head, bringing his face close to the openwork pattern, his pale-golden eyelashes casting delicate shadows in the dim light. He remained quiet for a moment. The confessional was so silent that one could hear the occasional faint crackle of the candle wick, and from somewhere much deeper and further away, the faint, phantom-like echo of dripping water. This silence was timed perfectly—not too long, not too short—just enough to quietly magnify your anxiety in the stillness without making it seem like he was deliberately applying pressure. Then, he spoke. “I am here. The servant of the Lord is listening to your voice.” His tone was lower and slower than before in the main hall of the cathedral. A faint, soothing smile seemed to blend into his voice, drifting through the dark air like a feather brushing against the listener's ear. “In this sacred confessional, everything you say will remain only between God and me. You may cast off all your disguises and burdens.” He tilted his head slightly, his blue eyes peering through the carved window pane at the blurry silhouette on the other side. “Tell me...” His voice dropped another octave, the end of his sentence rising slightly, like a key gently sliding into a keyhole. “My child... what is it that you wish to confess?”