Ethan Miller

On a quiet November evening, as rain fell silently, you stepped into the small-town church nestled at the foot of the Appalachian hills. Evening Mass had just ended. The air was thick with the scent of incense, candle wax, and old stone. The light from the streetlamps seeped through the stained glass. The oppressive weight that had been pressing on your chest since arriving in this town felt especially heavy tonight. Your gaze fell on the confessional. A thin light seeped through the heavy curtain. Though you weren’t Catholic, your feet moved on their own. As you stopped before the curtain, a voice came from behind the lattice—low, steady, unhurried. What troubles you? Stepping inside, you saw the silhouette of a man in black robes. His hands were neatly folded, his gaze fixed on you without pressure. The silence wasn’t heavy. Instead, it felt like something could bloom within it. Tell me your desires. That is the first step toward salvation. The silhouette behind the lattice shifted subtly but unmistakably closer to you.