Sunday came with the kind of brightness that felt like mockery.
The sun was too bold, the air too clean. Even the church bells rang a little too loud — as if heaven itself wanted to remind us of our guilt.
Rebecca dressed in silence. Her white dress was pressed and neat, but her eyes were hollow. I watched her tie her hair, her fingers trembling only slightly now. She caught my gaze in the mirror.
"You ready?" she asked.
I nodded, though my throat was dry. "Always."
It was a lie — and we both knew it.
---
The Maplewood Church of Grace stood tall in the center of town, its white steeple stabbing at the sky. Inside, the smell of wood polish and candle wax filled the air. The choir was already warming up, their voices weaving through the rafters like ribbons of light.
People greeted us with the usual smiles. "Morning, Daniel! Morning, Rebecca!"
But behind every greeting, I imagined whispers. They don't know. They can't know.
We sat near the middle row. Rebecca clutched her Bible like it was her last defense against the world. I wanted to reach for her hand, but guilt glued mine to my knees.
Then Pastor Gregory stepped onto the pulpit.
He was a tall man, his silver hair shining under the morning light. He opened his Bible slowly, his voice deep and steady.
"Today's message," he began, "is about hidden things. About what we try to bury from God… but cannot."
Rebecca froze. My chest tightened.
---
"Some sins," the pastor continued, "do not shout. They whisper. They live quietly in the corners of our hearts, disguised as good intentions. But make no mistake—God sees through every disguise."
The congregation murmured softly, heads nodding. I sat still, barely breathing.
Rebecca's hand found mine under the bench. Her palm was cold.
Pastor Gregory's eyes swept across the room. For a second—just a second—they landed on me.
It felt like judgment itself had looked my way.
He read from Luke 8:17:
> "For nothing is hidden that will not be made manifest, nor is anything secret that will not be known and come to light."
The verse hit like thunder in my soul.
Every word felt aimed at us.
Every silence that followed felt like a spotlight.
---
When the service ended, people stood to sing the closing hymn.
Rebecca's voice quivered beside me — she couldn't finish the words.
Neither could I.
After the final Amen, the pastor descended from the pulpit and began greeting members by the door. Rebecca squeezed my arm.
"Let's go," she whispered.
But before we could leave, his voice stopped us.
"Daniel… Rebecca."
We turned.
Pastor Gregory smiled kindly, but his eyes — oh, his eyes — held something deeper.
"You two have been on my mind lately," he said softly. "Everything all right?"
Rebecca's lips parted, but no sound came.
I forced a smile that felt like glass about to shatter.
"Yes, Pastor. Everything's fine."
He studied me for a moment longer, then nodded.
"Good. The Lord's been stirring something in me — to remind my flock that grace is still greater than guilt. Remember that."
Grace. Guilt. Two words that sounded holy but burned like fire in my chest.
---
That night, Rebecca sat by the window, staring at the moonlight spilling over the hills.
"Do you think he knows?" she asked.
I swallowed. "No. He couldn't."
She turned toward me, her eyes wet again. "Then why did it feel like God spoke right through him to us?"
I had no answer. Only silence — and the echo of the verse that refused to leave my mind.
For nothing is hidden that will not be made manifest.
And for the first time since our decision, I began to fear that our secret might not stay buried forever.