"I know, Parinte.[20]" The word catches in my throat. "Forgive me," I murmur. "I should not disturb you."
His eyes rest on me, unwavering.
"I… I have come for spovedanie,"[21] I say, struggling for steadiness. "I have sinned in thought. I cannot carry it until the hour of the Liturgy."
The admission settles heavy between us. He studies me for a long moment, one that seems to stretch without end.
At last, he inclines his head.
"Very well. Come."
He turns, not to the nave where the faithful gather, but along the side of the altar, a narrow space between the wall and the icon screen. It is dimmer there; a single candle burns before a painted saint, its flame brittle. Christ’s painted eyes seem to follow as I step into its glow.
The air feels cooler there. Closer—wooden wall at my back, the altar to my left, solid and immovable. There is nowhere to stand but close.
The priestlifts his hand and traces the sign of the cross over me.
"May the Lord, through His mercy, receive your repentance," he intones softly. "Speak, child."
My hands tremble where they rest against one another.
"Amin. My thoughts are unclean, Father" I whisper. "Last night, after the men left… I slept, and I—"
My fingers knot together at my waist. I keep my gaze fixed on the floor.
"I stood in the forest—I do not know how I came there. There was a… presence." My pulse stirs at the memory. "I do not know who, or what, but it was near. Too near."
I wait for a question. None comes.
The candle spits and settles, wax slipping down its side.
"It spoke to me," I continue, my voice thinner now. "He…It… said I had called it." My grip twist tighter, the last words barely holding shape.
Still, the Popa does not interrupt. The quiet deepens. It presses against my ribs, urging more from me.
"It touched me. Not—not as a man should." I rush on, before courage fails me. "But I felt it. Here."
My hand lifts a little from my lap, then drops again, uncertain, hovering near my throat.
The heat in my face is unbearable.
I lower my eyes further, wishing the earth would open and take me into it. I should not be speaking this. It should be buried, prayed into silence. Yet if I do not give it voice, it remains.
I shift, suddenly aware of how small the space is, how the wall stands close behind me, how the altar blocks my right side. The icons beyond the screen stare forward, wide and unblinking.
Should I say more?
Should I speak of Its breath? Of the warmth at my throat? Of the way my body answered before my mind could command it?
My heart hammers.
"I did not wish it. It was wrong, I know it was wrong." My throat tightens as I falter again. "It was only a dream. But it felt—" I stop.
The word willnot form. My gaze drops further, fixed now on the hem of my skirt. The icons above seem to watch, to judge, as though the saints can see what clings behind my eyes.
Perhaps I should not have come. Perhaps naming it makes it worse.
A shallow breath escapes me.
