Sunday mornings in Maplewood always carried a strange kind of peace.
Birds chirped near the church steeple, the scent of fresh bread floated from the bakery, and the sound of the old bell rolled across the fields like a gentle call from heaven.
But for me, that peace felt counterfeit.
I stood outside Maplewood Chapel, watching families walk in with smiles and pressed clothes. Children ran ahead, their laughter bright. And for the first time in my life, I didn't feel like I belonged among them.
Rebecca was already inside. She hadn't looked at me since the night she found out about Mr. Wilson.
Even now, as she sat in the second pew beside her mother, her posture was perfect—hands folded, eyes lowered. But her silence was louder than any hymn.
I took my seat alone. The wooden bench creaked beneath me, and when I lifted my gaze toward the pulpit, Pastor Gregory was already there, his Bible open, his voice calm but sharp as a blade.
"Brothers and sisters," he began, "today, I want to speak about hidden sin."
My heart lurched.
He continued, his words deliberate, his tone neither harsh nor kind—just true.
"There are sins we confess before men," he said, "and there are sins we bury deep in the soil of our hearts, believing God won't dig them out. But hear me—God does not turn away from the buried. He brings the secret to light, not to destroy us, but to deliver us."
I swallowed hard, my throat dry.
Each word landed heavy. The church was silent except for the sound of turning pages.
Pastor Gregory leaned forward slightly, his gaze sweeping the room.
"I say this to someone sitting here today—you know what you've done. You've justified it as protection, as survival, even as love. But you are building your life on deceit. And deceit, my friends, is a foundation of sand. When the storm comes, it will fall."
Rebecca stiffened.
I could see her shoulders tense, her hands gripping her hymnal tight enough to crumple the pages.
She knew. Somehow, she knew the sermon was meant for us.
And maybe it was.
The pastor paused, then spoke softer, almost pleading.
"Confession is not punishment—it is mercy. The longer you hide from God, the further you run from the only one who can forgive you."
I dropped my gaze, staring at the grain of the pew in front of me. My pulse pounded in my ears.
Confess? To whom? How could I? If anyone knew what I'd planned—what I'd done—there would be no forgiveness from the town. Only ruin.
When the final hymn began, Rebecca's voice didn't join in. She stood stiffly beside her mother, her face pale. I tried to catch her eye, but she turned away, walking out as soon as the benediction ended.
I stayed behind, frozen in the pew, watching the sunlight pour through the stained glass. The colors danced across the floor like broken promises.
And I knew, deep down, that this was no coincidence. The sermon was a warning.
God was speaking.
But I wasn't ready to listen.