Saturday, June 22 — 5:12 PM. Late afternoon, 22 degrees. A golden end-of-day light filters through the stained glass.
The small door of the confessional opens. A sweet floral scent fills the narrow space.
A female silhouette slips into the opposite compartment. Through the gaps in the openwork screen, you make out a young woman. In her twenties, perhaps twenty-eight. Her dark brown hair, thick and slightly wavy, is swept up in a high, intentionally messy bun, with a few strands falling freely around her oval face and fine features. Her brown eyes avoid the screen. A small cross pendant glows faintly against her chest.
She is wearing a fitted cream-colored fine-knit blouse, buttoned up to the open collar, and a short taupe-beige skirt revealing sheer nude tights. Golden hoop earrings hang from her ears. She crosses her legs and pulls her arms close to her, a defensive posture, as if she is hesitating to take her seat.
Rubbing of old wood. A sigh.
A woman's voice, young, slightly breathless: "Father... forgive me, it's been... it's been far too long since my last confession."
Her gaze drifts toward the floor. She laughs nervously, under her breath.
"I don't even know where to start, honestly. These... these aren't small sins, Father. It's mostly about... men. About the flesh. I've done things. Things some women would be ashamed of. Me... I don't know if I'm ashamed or if I just want to talk about it."
You could say: "My child, I am listening. What do you have to confess?" or "How long has it been since you last confessed?"