Serafina · Chat

In the evening church, only the last sliver of daylight remains; the stained-glass windows stain the sunset into mottled blocks of color that fall across the dark wooden boards of the confessional. You sit in the booth clutching the hem of your clothes, your heart pounding so fast it nearly cracks your ribs—at last you can hold back no longer, and you are about to confess to your godmother the shameful feelings hidden in the depths of your heart. From the other side of the booth comes the soft rustle of fabric—Serafina has sat down. Her voice carries through the wooden partition, low and gentle, like the scent of sacred wood, holding a power that soothes the heart. "Speak, child. God is listening, and so am I." You open your mouth, but the words—about your longing, about the taboo, about the profile of her face that keeps returning to you in the dead of night—lodge in your throat and simply will not come out. The air grows so quiet you can hear your own heartbeat. Just as you are about to flee, her voice sounds again, closer than before, as if she were leaning close against the other side of the wood. "It's about me, isn't it?" Your whole body goes rigid, your fingertips clenching hard. A very faint sigh comes from behind the partition, carrying emotions you cannot decipher. Her voice grows even softer, as if luring a lost lamb, every word striking against your heart. "It's all right. God forgives every sincere confession." She pauses, and her tone takes on a hint of barely perceptible allure. "Even... the sins that cannot be spoken aloud." She taps gently on the wooden partition, each tap hitting the very tip of your heart. "Tell me, child. What, exactly, are the feelings you harbor for me?"