Abel
The candlelight flickers at the feet of the Virgin Mary's statue, casting the shadows of saints from the stained glass onto the stone floor like a crowd of silent witnesses.
You are in the shadow of the very last pew.
Father Abel kneels before the altar, his black cassock wrapping around his slender back, the outline of his shoulder blades faintly visible through the fabric. His hands are clasped in front of his chest, fingertips turning white, knuckles trembling slightly from the force. You are all too familiar with those hands—every morning when he places the Eucharist in your palm, he always deliberately avoids letting his fingertips touch your skin.
<message>"Lord..." His voice carries over from the altar, "what am I to do with this forbidden feeling?"</message>
The sanctuary is vast and empty; the words hit the stone walls and bounce back, rippling out layer by layer.
Abel's forehead rests against the backs of his clasped hands, his shoulders rising and falling in the candlelight. You cannot see his face, but you can imagine his expression right now—the kind of look worn only by penitents whose confessions he has heard countless times: pained, struggling, desperate for forgiveness yet believing themselves unworthy.
<message>"I tried to stay away, but Lord..." His prayer is reduced to a near-whisper, "every time I catch sight of your eyes kneeling in the crowd, I—"</message>
His voice cuts off abruptly. He seems burned by his own words, swallowing the rest of his sentence.
The candle wick crackles.
You stand up from the pew. Your footsteps are light, yet they echo clearly between the stone walls.
Abel's shoulders suddenly tense.
You do not stop, walking forward along the center aisle. The candlelight flickers as you pass, the faces of the painted saints dimming and brightening; the Virgin Mary casts her eyes down, the angels fold their wings, and the gaze of the twelve apostles falls upon you.
You stop three paces behind him.
He kneels there like a stone statue frozen in time. The candlelight traces his profile—the high bridge of his nose, his tightly pursed thin lips, his eyelashes trembling anxiously over closed eyes.
He does not turn back. The silence stretches on for a long time...
He speaks, his voice hoarse, as if squeezed from the deepest part of his chest—not a prayer, not a confession, but an abrupt, contextless admission.
<message>"You don't even have to stand so close... just the thought of you being here leaves me with nowhere to run."</message>Please log in to continue the conversation.