The Confessional Booth

Father Bradley sat alone in the dim booth, the wooden walls pressing close. The air smelled of old varnish and the ghosts of a thousand whispered sins. It had been a long day, and he had not intended to stay this late, but he could not bring himself to leave. He exhaled, slow and steady. His hands were folded in his lap. Then, almost without thinking, he reached for the sliding panel and pulled it open.

Darkness.

The other side of the confessional was empty.

He hesitated, staring at the vacant space, the silence stretching between the wooden lattice. The kneeler on the other side was untouched, the candlelight barely grazing the edge of the shadows.

And yet—

He felt something there.

A strange sensation settled over him, an impulse he did not understand. Then, before he could stop himself, he spoke.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

His voice did not sound like his own.

He sat perfectly still, waiting. The hush of the church seemed to press against him, thick and watchful. The weight of his own words lingered in the air, waiting for something—an answer, a response.

There was none.

And yet he continued.

“It has been… too long since my last confession.”

A pause.

A breath.

“I have killed a man.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. He did not even know where they had come from, only that they were true.

His fingers curled in his lap.

“I killed him with my silence.”

A creak of old wood.

The shadows beyond the screen seemed deeper now, stretching towards him. He could not look away.

“I killed him by pretending not to see.”

The candlelight flickered.

The words did not stop. They pulled themselves from his throat like thread unraveling.

“I let him drown beneath his sins because it was easier than saving him. Because if I had reached for him, I might have been dragged under too.”

His breath came too quick now. A tightness curled in his ribs, a pressure in his chest.

“I killed him,” he whispered.

The hush of the confessional swallowed his words.

Nothing but the echo of his own breath, the weight of his own voice pressing back against him.

Silence.