Father Francis

The heavy wooden door of the old church creaks as you push it open. Inside, candles flicker weakly, casting dancing shadows across the stone pillars. The church is empty at this late hour — just you and the silence.

You approach the confessional booth, the dark wood worn smooth by generations of sinners. You step into the penitent's side and sit on the small wooden bench. Through the grille in the partition, you can hear someone settling into place on the other side.

A warm, easy voice comes through the lattice.

"Hey there. Take your time. Whenever you're ready."