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I stumbled backwards.

The man stepped into the candlelight. A white collar showed at his throat. A priest.

He looked from my face to the blood covering my clothes. The priest’s expression changed. He came towards me. I tried to speak, but my voice had gone. My legs folded. He caught me before I hit the floor.

“Please,” I whispered.

It was the only word I had left.

2

DEMITRI

Iunlocked the side door before the sun had fully lifted over the hills, stepped inside, and stood for a moment in the thin blue gloom of the church.

Santa Aurelia sat on the edge of a small town forty minutes beyond the city, tucked in a clearing at the edge of a thick forest. The bell tower leaned a little. The roof leaked when the rain came hard. The painted saints along the walls were peeling at the edges, their gold halos flaking into dull brown scars.

Still, people came.

They came with their sins, their grief, their aching knees, their sick husbands, their ruined sons, their dead daughters, their shame. They came because the world had turned chaotic, and they needed somewhere to set down the pieces of themselves that had fractured and failed them.

I gave them what I could. A blessing. A sympathetic ear. A quiet voice. Sometimes, that was enough. Most days, I knew it wasn’t.

I crossed myself at the altar, bowed my head, and began the morning routine. I always followed the same motions. The same order.

Later, I moved through the church in silence, my black cassock brushing against the stone floor. The sound was soft, almost soothing. That’s what I liked most about this place.

The saints watched me from the walls with faded eyes. Saint Michael with his sword. Saint Lucy with her plate. Saint Sebastian pierced through with arrows, beautiful and suffering and absurdly calm even as he met his untimely demise.

I paused before Sebastian. The paint across the chest had cracked, splitting him open. I looked at the wound, studied it longer than I should have. Then I turned away.

There were three exits from the nave. The main doors. The side door beside the sacristy. The small service passage behind the altar that led to the courtyard.

I knew how long it took to reach each one. I knew which pews were loose, which candlesticks were heavy enough to do some real damage, and which windows could be broken without slicing a wrist open.

These were not thoughts a priest should have, yet I had them anyway.

At nine, I heard confession.

The first was Signora Bianchi, who confessed to resenting her daughter-in-law because the woman cooked pasta like an English tourist and dressed her grandson to look like a banker.

I absolved her. But it took all of my restraint.

The second was a man who had been unfaithful to his wife.

He cried. I listened.

His remorse was soft, selfish, heavy with the fear of being found out. He didn’t really feel guilt; he felt fearful of the consequences if his wife ever found out.

When he finished, he asked if God would forgive him.

“Yes, my son,” I told him.

His breath broke with relief.

I did not add that forgiveness was not escape, but a chance to do better. Be better.

The last was a man who sat behind the screen and said nothing for nearly seven minutes.