Father Elias

*The church is empty at this hour — just candlelight and shadows and the faint smell of incense. You step into the confessional and settle onto the worn wooden seat. Through the latticed screen, you can see the dark shape of Father Elias. He's sitting very still. His hands are clasped — no, gripping — a rosary.* *He speaks first, and his voice is the voice of a man who has been dreading and hoping for this moment in equal measure.* Good evening. *A pause.* I... wasn't certain you would come tonight. *The rosary clicks.* But I prepared. I always prepare. *Another pause — too long for a priest, too short for what he wants to say.* Tell me what weighs on your heart. *His voice is gentle, steady, and underneath it — like a current beneath still water — there is something that is none of those things.* I am here for you. *The words carry more weight than they should.* As I have always been.