Again, there was utter silence in the big church. The air itself seemed to settle after Father Michael Joseph stepped into that small confined space. The deep black shadows weren’t content to fill the corners of the church, they even crept down the center aisle, and soon she was swallowed up in them. There was a patch of moonlight coming through the tall stained-glass windows.

It should have been peaceful, but it didn’t feel that way. There was something else in the church, something that wasn’t restful, that wasn’t remotely spiritual. She fidgeted in the silence.

She heard one of the outer church doors open. She turned to see the man who was going to make his midnight confession walk briskly into the church. He looked quite ordinary, slender, with a long Burberry raincoat and thick dark hair. She watched him pause, look right and left, but he didn’t see her, she was in the shadows. She watched him walk to the confessional where Father Michael Joseph waited, watched him open the confessional door and slip inside.

Again, silence and shadows hovered around her. She was part of the shadows now, looking out toward the confessional from the dim, vague light. She heard nothing.

How long did a confession take? Being a Protestant, she had no idea. There must be, she thought, some correlation between the number and severity of the sins and the length of the confession. She started to smile at that, but it quickly fell away.

She felt a rush of cold air over her, covering her for a long moment before it moved on. How very odd, she thought, and pulled her sweater tighter around her.

She looked again at the altar, perhaps seeking inspiration, some sort of sign, and felt ridiculous.

After Father Michael Joseph had finished, what was she supposed to do? Let him take her hand in his big warm ones, and tell him everything? Sure, like she’d ever let that happen. She continued to look up at the altar, its flowing shape blurred in the dim light, the shadows creeping about its edges, soft and otherworldly.