The air in the confessional was thick, stifling. Every breath felt heavy, as if the weight of unspoken sins clung to the walls, soaking into the wood like a stain that would never fade. He sat there in the darkness, waiting, listening to the quiet hum of the church at night. It was a place of refuge for so many, but for him, it had become something else entirely—something far more complicated.

For years, this place had been a sanctuary. The familiar rhythm of the church's routine had provided a sense of order, a way to control the chaos that had come with the choices he'd made. Choices that had once seemed clear, purposeful. But now, as time passed, the lines had blurred, and the life he had built was beginning to feel less like a calling and more like a burden he couldn't shake.

His thoughts drifted, as they often did these days, to Mae.

She hadn't always been Mae. She had been someone else once, someone purer, someone untouched by the world's darkness. But time and circumstance had changed her, just as it had changed him. And now, their paths had crossed again, in a way neither of them could have predicted.

He clenched his hands together, his knuckles white in the dim light. Watching her the night before had stirred something in him—something he had thought he had buried long ago. It wasn't just desire; it was something deeper, more dangerous. A connection he couldn't afford to feel.

He had kept his distance. He had to. Getting too close would unravel everything he had worked to maintain. Yet the pull she had on him was undeniable, and with every encounter, it grew stronger, threatening to break through the carefully constructed walls he had built around himself.

The door to the confessional creaked open on the other side, and he straightened in his seat, slipping easily back into the role he had played for so long—the role of a listener, an advisor, someone who could offer absolution for sins that couldn't be undone.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," a voice whispered through the wooden screen, the words familiar, rehearsed.

He took a slow breath, grounding himself in the routine of the moment. It was easier this way, to focus on the needs of others, to drown out the noise of his own conscience.

"What troubles you, my child?" he asked, his voice steady, practiced.

There was a pause, a hesitation on the other side. The silence stretched, filled only by the faint sound of breathing, as if the person wasn't sure how to begin.

"I've done things," the voice finally said, low and broken. "Things I can't take back."

He felt a flicker of something—recognition, perhaps. It wasn't the specifics of the confession that struck him; it was the weight behind it, the sense of guilt and regret. It mirrored something deep within himself, something he had buried beneath years of lies and half-truths.

"We all make mistakes," he replied softly. "But redemption is always possible, if you seek it."

Another long pause, and then a quiet, bitter laugh. "Redemption? I don't think I deserve it."

He closed his eyes, the words cutting deeper than they should have. How many times had he felt the same? How many nights had he sat in the darkness, questioning whether he was beyond saving?

"God's mercy is endless," he said, the familiar phrase rolling off his tongue. "No sin is too great to be forgiven."

"But what if I've hurt people?" the voice asked, barely above a whisper. "What if I've destroyed lives for my own gain?"

His chest tightened, the confession hitting closer to home than he wanted to admit. The life he had chosen, the choices he had made—they had consequences. Consequences he was still dealing with, consequences he couldn't escape. He had hurt people, too, more than he cared to think about. But unlike the person on the other side of the confessional, he hadn't sought forgiveness. He wasn't sure if he ever would.

"You can still seek redemption," he said quietly, though the words felt hollow, even to him. "But you have to want it. You have to be willing to change."

There was no response, only the sound of shallow breathing. The silence stretched on, and he felt the weight of his own guilt pressing down on him, heavier than it had been in a long time. It wasn't just the lies he had told, the life he had built in secret—it was the knowledge that he was too far gone to ever be truly free of it.

He had tried to justify it to himself over the years. He had told himself that what he was doing was for the greater good, that the ends justified the means. But as time went on, that justification had worn thin, and now, all that remained was the cold reality of the choices he had made.

"I don't know how to stop," the voice said, barely audible. "I don't know how to fix what I've done."

Neither do I, he thought, the weight of the confession settling in his chest like a stone. He wanted to offer comfort, to say something that would ease the person's guilt, but he couldn't. He wasn't sure he believed it anymore.

"Pray for guidance," he said, his voice low and steady. "And trust that God will lead you back to the light."

The person murmured a quiet thank you before slipping out of the booth, leaving him alone once again in the suffocating silence. He sat there for a long time, his thoughts churning, his mind filled with images of Mae—of Seraphina.

He had watched her from the shadows, just as he had watched countless others before her. But this time, it was different. This time, there was something more at stake. He had tried to stay away, tried to convince himself that he could keep his distance, but every time he saw her, it became harder to ignore the pull she had on him.

He couldn't let her go. Not yet. Not when she was so deeply entwined in everything he had built.

But how long could he keep up the charade? How long could he hide the truth, not just from her, but from himself?

He ran a hand through his hair, the weight of his own secrets pressing down on him. He had made his choices, and now he had to live with them. But Mae—Seraphina—was different. She was a reminder of the person he used to be, of the life he had left behind. And she was the key to everything.

He couldn't afford to let her slip away. But he couldn't afford to get too close, either.

With a sigh, he stood, slipping out of the confessional and into the quiet of the empty church. The familiar walls felt foreign now, as if they no longer offered the comfort they once had. He had been living two lives for so long that he wasn't sure which one was real anymore.

And as he stepped into the cool night air, the weight of his secrets heavier than ever, he knew one thing for certain: the facade he had built was starting to crumble.