Aaron didn't sleep that night.
The Bible sat on his desk, closed, but he could feel it—like a second heart beating in the room. The silence around it was wrong, thick, attentive.
At 2:14 a.m., the pages flipped.
Slow.
Deliberate.
He opened his eyes.
The lamp flickered on by itself.
The book was open now.
He hadn't touched it.
Verses filled the once-blank pages, written in narrow, beautiful handwriting. But they weren't scripture.
They were memories.
A line trembled on the paper:
You lied at thirteen.
You blamed your brother.
You watched him get beaten.
Aaron's throat tightened.
He whispered, "That's impossible."
More words bled into existence:
You prayed for forgiveness.
But you never prayed for him.
The room grew colder.
Aaron stepped back, heart racing.
The page turned itself.
Another memory.
His first secret doubt.
His first dishonest sermon.
His quiet envy of other men's faith.
The Bible wasn't reading scripture.
It was reading him.
Suddenly the margin shifted.
An eye opened inside the paper.
Not drawn.
Real.
Blinking.
It stared directly at him.
A whisper slid through the air:
"Confession begins when God stops speaking."
The light went out.
And the book kept turning pages in the dark.