Ashes of Revelation

Father Michaels sat alone in the chapel, the candlelight flickering shadows across the stone walls like restless ghosts. The confessional booth behind him loomed large in his memory—he could still hear the tremor in Arthur’s voice, the anguish barely hidden behind forced calm.

“I’ve broken something sacred,” Arthur had confessed.

But Father Michaels already knew.

He had seen the signs. The way Arthur looked at Isabella. The way he lingered after mass, eyes searching for something he couldn’t find in the Word. The way Isabella had changed—softer around the edges, but burning with a defiance that felt like a cry for help.

He’d pretended not to notice. Until last night.

Until he saw them!

Until he found the journal!

It wasn’t just lust. It was madness. And it had taken root inside the very man he’d once mentored. The altar boy who had become the golden man of the church. The son he never had. The son he loved. The son he valued.

Father Michaels dropped his rosary onto the pew, the beads rattling like bones.

He had a choice now—bury the truth and pray it passed, or confront it head-on and risk everything.

He chose the latter.

---

Arthur was startled by the knock on his office door. He wasn’t expecting anyone—certainly not Father Michaels.

“Father,” he said, standing. “You’re here late.”

Michaels stepped inside without invitation, closing the door behind him. His eyes scanned the room like a man walking through the remnants of a burned house.

“We need to talk.”

Arthur knew immediately.

“It’s not what you think—”

“It’s exactly what I think.”

Silence fell.

Arthur ran a hand over his face, trying to form words that would make this less catastrophic. But nothing came. Only the image of Isabella’s bare back, the scent of her skin still lingering on his.

Father Michaels took a slow breath. “Do you love her?”

Arthur looked up, shocked by the softness in his tone. “I… I don’t know. But I can’t stay away from her.”

“That’s not love, Arthur. That’s obsession.”

“No. It’s more than that.”

Michaels’ expression hardened. “You’ve broken your vow. Desecrated the altar of everything you swore to uphold. And you’ve dragged an innocent girl down with you.”

“She’s not innocent,” Arthur snapped before he could stop himself. Then regretted it instantly.

“Then you’re both condemned.”

The words hung like judgment.

Arthur stared at the crucifix on the wall, suddenly feeling cold.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

Father Michaels looked down at his hands. “What I must.”

---

Isabella paced her apartment, the echo of Arthur’s last words still ringing in her ears. He had promised to protect her. To face whatever storm came. But something had shifted in his voice this morning—a fear she hadn’t heard before.

A knock at her door.

She opened it to find Father Michaels standing in the hallway, a worn Bible clutched in one hand.

“Father?” she said, startled.

He didn’t smile. “We need to speak, Isabella. Alone.”

Something in his tone chilled her.

She stepped aside.

And with that, the walls began to close in.

---

The apartment was small and warm with the faint scent of lavender. A coffee cup sat half-drunk on the table, and a folded blanket hinted at a restless night.

Father Michaels remained standing.

“I was once like you,” he began. “Hungry for answers. For something deeper. But desire isn’t always holy.”

Isabella’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then you know how impossible it is to silence it.”

“That’s where the battle begins.”

She crossed her arms, defensive. “What do you want from me?”

“To understand what he means to you.”

She hesitated, blinking back the sting in her eyes. “He’s the only man who’s ever seen me. Past the mask. Past the expectations. When he touches me, I feel like I exist.”

Michaels looked away, jaw tightening.

“This—whatever is between you—has consequences. For him. For the church. For your soul.”

“I never asked to be part of his world,” she said. “But I’m not walking away from it now.”

Silence stretched.

Then Father Michaels, defeated, set the Bible on her table.

“When the time comes, you’ll need this more than me.”

He turned and left, the door clicking softly behind him.

Outside, the wind had begun to howl.

----------

But Father Michaels did not go far. He remained in the shadows outside her building, watching the flicker of lights through her window, listening to the silence between the city’s breaths. He was torn. His role had always been to guide, not to condemn. But the truth of what he’d witnessed—and the ripple it would cause—was like a poison.

He reached for his phone. A single number stared back at him. The bishop’s.

His thumb hovered over the call button.

And didn’t press it.

Instead, he slid the phone back into his coat and stared up at the heavens, wondering how the stars could shine so coldly on a night like this.

Inside, Isabella sat on the floor of her living room, clutching the Bible to her chest like a relic, her heart heavy with doubt.

She whispered Arthur’s name like a prayer.

He wasn’t hers to love.

And yet she did.

--------

The following morning after mass, Father Michael retreated to his office. He didn’t expect the knock on the door.

It was Isabella.

She stepped inside, clutching her hands nervously. “We need to talk.”

He gestured for her to sit. She didn’t.

“I know you What you saw,” she said plainly. “And I think… I think you’re struggling with more than just our secret.”

Michael opened his mouth to deny it, but her gaze was sharp, unwavering. “You’re not just concerned for us. You’re conflicted. About Arthur.”

He looked away. “You think you know what’s in my heart?”

“I don’t. But I recognize the look,” she said gently. “I’ve seen it in Arthur. That look of yearning. Of guilt. Of restraint breaking.”

Michael rose to his feet. “I am your priest, Isabella.”

“You’re a man, Father. Just like Arthur.”

Her words struck him like thunder. She wasn’t taunting him—she was laying bare the truth they all tiptoed around. The web of desire stretched between them, tangled and volatile.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she added. “But you’re in this now, too.”

With that, she left.

That evening, Father Michael lit every candle in the chapel, seeking light against the shadows creeping into his soul. But when he closed his eyes to pray, it wasn’t scripture he heard—it was Arthur’s voice in the confessional, and Isabella’s final words.

He had been a man of God all his life. But now, he stood at the altar not as a shepherd, but as a man caught in the fire of forbidden longing.

And the flames were only growing higher.