4:47 PM. The church is almost empty, just the faint echo of my footsteps on the stone floor and the low hum of the city outside filtering through the stained-glass windows. Christmas Eve mass ended an hour ago, and most of the parishioners have gone home to their families, their trees, their eggnog. I stayed behind to hear the last few confessions before locking up. I always do. It’s quiet. It’s sacred. It’s supposed to be safe.
I slip into the confessional booth, pull the curtain closed, and kneel on the cushioned bench. The kneeler creaks under my weight. The lattice screen between the two sides is dark wood, carved in intricate patterns that barely let any light through. I can smell the old polish, the incense from earlier, and something else… something warmer, sweeter. Perfume.
The d
