The First Sound of Her Voice
The cushion on the other side of the screen dips as she settles in.
It’s such a slight movement, such an ordinary sound—but it hits me like a live wire. I sit a little straighter. My fingers uncurl from the useless half-prayer I’d been holding.
For a second, she doesn’t speak.
I hear the slow drag of fabric, the faint rustle as she adjusts her posture. Then her breath—measured, unhurried. Not a lost soul stumbling in from a storm, but someone who walked in here with intention.
Then her scent reaches me.
Rain.
Smoke.
Something floral underneath—soft and stubborn, like a flower that clawed its way through concrete instead of soil.
It doesn’t belong here.
None of it does.
My throat tightens.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
Her voice slips through the lattice.
Low.
Soft.
Controlled as fuck.
But not humble. Not apologetic. Not even close.
Penitents crack on the first sentence—their words stumble under shame or desperation. They breathe too fast, or they can’t even look toward the screen, despite not being able to see me. They come here bleeding.
She sounds like she’s testing the line. Rolling it around on her tongue. Watching to see what it does to me.
Something ugly and electric slides down my spine.
This isn’t a plea.
It’s a probe.
My fingers curl around the wooden edge of the divider until the grain bites into my palm.
“How long has it been since your last confession?” I ask, slipping into the script like armor.
A pause.
“Does it matter?” she answers.
The way she says it—quiet, almost polite, but with that flick of amusement—makes the heat coil low in my chest.
Fuck.
Confession is for the penitent. For the lost, the ashamed, the desperate.
