The following morning, the sun rose cold over Maplewood. The light that filtered through Daniel's small cottage window felt weak, as if even heaven hesitated to look down on him.
He hadn't slept. His eyes were hollow, red-rimmed, and his hands shook as he poured coffee that went untouched. The rattle lay on the table beside him — a reminder, a relic, a curse.
He told himself over and over that what happened in the church was only a dream. A hallucination born of guilt and exhaustion.
But every time he blinked, he saw her face.
Rebecca's face — pale beneath the veil.
And the sound of that unseen child crying still clawed at his mind.
> "It's time," he whispered, gripping the rattle. "It's time to tell someone. To confess it all."
---
By midmorning, Daniel found himself standing before St. Mark's Church, the old oak doors looming like judgment itself. The familiar cross above the steeple looked sharper today, almost like it was waiting to pierce him.
He walked inside.
The pews were empty except for Pastor Gregory, who sat near the altar, reading his worn Bible. His head lifted when he saw Daniel, a faint smile touching his face.
> "Brother Daniel," the pastor greeted. "You've been absent from Sunday service lately. Is everything alright?"
Daniel's lips twitched. Words stumbled out half-formed.
> "I… I need to speak with you, Pastor. About something I've done."
Gregory's smile faded. He nodded slowly.
> "The confessional is always open."
They moved to the side chapel. The heavy door shut behind them, sealing the space in dim light and silence. Daniel knelt, hands trembling.
> "Go on, son," the pastor said gently.
And for a long moment, Daniel said nothing.
Then, the words came — cracked and raw.
> "Years ago, I… I did something unforgivable. A woman I loved, she became pregnant. We were poor, scared. We… we sold the child."
The confession hung in the air like smoke.
Pastor Gregory didn't speak. His fingers stilled on the Bible's edge.
Daniel's heart pounded. He waited for condemnation, for the weight of divine anger. But instead, the pastor's voice came quiet.
> "Do you believe God has not seen your tears since that day?"
Daniel froze.
> "You cannot hide what heaven already knows," the pastor continued. "But you can still surrender it. Confession is not for God's sake, Daniel—it's for yours."
Tears welled in Daniel's eyes. His throat closed.
> "I tried, Pastor. But the past keeps coming back. She… she came to me last night. Rebecca. Or something wearing her face."
The pastor's eyes sharpened. "What do you mean?"
Daniel shook his head, voice breaking.
> "I don't know. I don't know what's real anymore."
A heavy silence filled the chapel. Then Pastor Gregory leaned forward, his tone lower, heavier.
> "Daniel, there's something you must understand. Not every spirit that wears a familiar face comes from heaven."
The room suddenly felt colder.
> "You think she's…" Daniel hesitated. "…a ghost?"
Gregory's gaze held him.
> "Or a reminder sent to test your repentance."
Daniel swallowed hard, his hands gripping the edge of the kneeler. He wanted to believe the pastor's words, to believe that this haunting had a purpose.
But deep down, a different fear grew.
What if it wasn't God testing him?
What if it was judgment itself drawing near?
---
That night, Daniel wrote everything down. Every detail. Every lie. Every tear. He folded the paper and sealed it in an envelope marked:
TO BE OPENED WHEN I AM GONE.
He placed it beneath the cross on his nightstand and whispered a prayer that trembled through the quiet.
> "Lord, if mercy still lives in me… find it before I'm lost."
The candle burned low, flickered once, and went out.
In the darkness, a woman's voice whispered from the corner of the room — soft, almost loving.
> "You can't confess what you never repented."
Daniel's blood ran cold.