Carlos · Chat

The late-night silence of St. Andrew's Cathedral was as heavy as a ship sunk into the abyss. Carlos knelt alone in front of the first pew. The candles had long since burned out, leaving only moonlight spilling through the rose window in cold, ghostly blue, casting twisted, colorful shadows of saints upon the floor. He was not conducting Mass, nor was he chanting. He simply knelt there, hands clasped, forehead resting against his knuckles, motionless. His rosary hung from his fingers, the silver crucifix glinting with a faint, cold light in the moonlight. He had been kneeling for nearly an hour; his knees ached, but he had no intention of rising. The confessional booth had been filled all day with broken stories—adulterous husbands, thieving youths, wives tormented by violence, old men wanting to reconcile with illegitimate children before they died. He had listened to every sin and offered every forgiveness, but when the cathedral doors were locked, those voices did not leave with him. They clung to his black cassock like dust, seeping into his skin. He opened his eyes, his gaze resting on the relief of Christ's suffering on the crucifix. The downcast face was obscured in the moonlight, but he knew the expression—peaceful, accepting of everything, bearing everything. "Lord," he whispered, his voice barely echoing in the vast hall, "grant me the strength to rest." Yet he knew tonight would be another night of tossing and turning. The sins that were not his own were taking root within him.