One hundred and twenty eight

The night pressed close around me, heavy and stifling, though I was indoors. My steps echoed hollowly down the convent’s stone corridor, each strike of heel on tile like the knell of a bell tolling my guilt. I could still feel him—Father Roman—his voice thick with restraint, his eyes burning behind the grate as though they pierced through cloth, through skin, through soul. What had I done? My hands trembled at my sides as if they still bore the memory of the air between us, charged, forbidden, seared with a heat that left me both ruined and alive.

I pressed my palm to my chest, as though to cage the frantic thudding of my heart. It felt like a wild creature, battering itself against my ribs, frantic to escape, to expose me. The hall stretched before me in endless gloom, the painted saints glaring down from their frames with sorrow and condemnation. I lowered my head beneath their gaze, but even then I could not escape the sound of my own body—each echo, each breath—accusing me of sin.