Then someone touched my shoulder—gentle, respectful.
A boy, maybe ten or eleven, with clear eyes and a careful expression. He said only one thing:
"He's asked for you."
I nodded without thinking.
My knees felt unsteady as I stood, smoothing my dress, brushing invisible dust from my hands.
I followed the boy out a side door of the chapel and down a narrow hallway.
The walls were wooden, smooth from age. I'd never been back here before.
Most people hadn't. The space behind the chapel always felt… off-limits, like it didn't belong to the rest of us.
At the end of the hall, a small door stood open.
The boy motioned toward it but didn't come in.
He just smiled, then walked away.
Inside was the confession room.
It was dim, the walls bare, the light soft and warm from a single lantern on the far wall.
