I sit with my hands in my lap for another few seconds, because I need my legs to stop shaking before I can stand. When they finally do, I stand up. My knees dip into a genuflect before I can stop them. Muscle memory doesn’t care that I haven’t believed in anything sacred for half a decade.
I walk down the aisle. Each step echoes up into that painted ceiling and comes back down sounding twice as big. I reach the third confessional and pull open the left-side door, the penitent’s side. The booth is small, dark, and smells like old wood and furniture polish and, beneath that…
I sit down on the narrow wooden bench and pull the door shut behind me. The latch catches with a soft click.
The lattice screen between us is old and intricate, the gaps small enough that I can’t make out any real det
