The trial begins

A storm loomed over St. Jude’s Parish—less a weathered threat and more a brooding sense of inevitable collapse. Arthur sat alone in the bishop’s antechamber, clothed in his clerical robes for what might be the last time. The silence stretched long and thick, pierced only by the soft ticking of the gilded clock on the wall. With each tick, the walls seemed to close in further, as if the building itself anticipated the condemnation it was about to witness.

He clenched his fists. It had been days since Michael submitted the report to the bishop. Days of silence. Days where whispers replaced greetings, and warm gazes turned into cold stares. He had stopped speaking with Isabella entirely—not out of resentment, but fear. Fear that she would be dragged further into this maelstrom. He wanted to shield her, even if it meant breaking her heart.

The door creaked open.

“Father Arthur Harpwr” a tall man in austere robes called. “You may enter.”

Arthur rose, spine rigid, heart a battlefield. He stepped into the dim room beyond, greeted by a long table flanked by senior clerics. At its head sat Bishop Callahan, stern-faced and unreadable. Michael was there too, seated quietly at the corner of the room. Their eyes met briefly.

A pang struck Arthur’s chest. Michael had been his mentor. His confidant. His brother in faith. Infact his father.

And now—his judge.

“Father Arthur Harper"the bishop began, “you have been summoned under Canon Law to respond to accusations of violating your sacred vows. We pray your conscience guides you to truth and repentance.”

Arthur bowed slightly. “I understand, Your Grace.”

“What is your relationship with Isabella Luca".He asked.

The question sliced through the room.

Arthur hesitated.

“She is… a parishioner. A close friend.”

“More than that, by the witness of multiple sources,” the bishop replied. “Are you in love with her?”

A pause.

“Yes.”

Whispers fluttered like moths in the shadows. Michael’s face remained impassive, but his eyes dimmed. Arthur saw the weight behind them. He wasn’t enjoying this.

“Have you committed the act of fornication with her?”

“No.”

“Would she say the same?”

“I believe so.”

“And yet, you intended to flee with her?”

Arthur’s hands tightened into fists. “I was afraid.”

The bishop nodded slowly. “Afraid of what?”

“Afraid of being torn apart from the only person who ever made me feel like I wasn’t just a vessel for sermons and penance.”

“You were afraid of consequence,” another cleric corrected. “Not love. Don’t mistake rebellion for romance.”

Arthur didn’t respond. The proceedings continued—rigid, clinical, invasive. Questions about his past arose. Old scars re-exposed. They knew more than they should: his troubled youth, a brief stint in juvenile detention, his foster care history, and a woman he had once loved before seminary. Her name was Helena. She died giving birth to a child that didn’t survive.

Arthur had buried that pain long ago.

Now, they exhumed it.

“We are not just judging your actions, Father Harper,” the bishop said finally. “We are weighing your worthiness to represent the Church.”

Silence fell.

The verdict would come within days.

Arthur left the chamber with lead in his steps and darkness in his lungs.

---

Isabella sat in the chapel’s last pew, eyes locked on the crucifix above the altar. The candles danced in rhythm with her breath—shallow, rapid, uncertain. The pews were mostly empty, save for an elderly woman murmuring prayers to the Virgin and a young man lighting votive candles. No one noticed her presence. Or perhaps, everyone chose not to.

She hadn’t seen Arthur in three days.

He had disappeared into silence, into shadow.

She had gone to his residence. Locked. She had tried calling. Nothing. Even the other priests avoided her now. Only Michael looked her in the eye, but with a distance that chilled her to the bone.

She needed answers.

And so, when she heard Michael was at the vestry, she waited.

When he emerged, coat over his arm and keys in hand, she stepped into his path.

“Michael.”

He stopped. Hesitated. “Isabella.”

“You reported him, didn’t you?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, but not in anger. In sorrow.

“I did what I had to do. For his soul. And yours.”

“You had no right,” she said, voice low, trembling. “You broke him.”

“I didn’t break him,” Michael replied. “He broke his vows. I merely exposed the wound.”

“You knew what he’s been through. You know how hard he fought to become something good. And you turned on him the moment he fell in love.”

Michael’s jaw clenched. “He didn’t just fall in love. He abandoned sacred commitments. He put the Church in jeopardy.”

“He’s human!”

“We are not called to be human,” Michael said, harsher now. “We are called to be holy. When we stop holding ourselves to that standard, we become hypocrites in robes.”

Tears burned her eyes.

“Then you’re a hypocrite too, Michael,” she whispered. “Because once upon a time, you said God was love. Where is the love in this?”

He turned away.

“Sometimes love demands hard choices.”

She watched him go, the anger and sorrow in her chest warring for control. She had come for answers. She left with nothing but a deeper ache.

---

Arthur returned to his quarters that night, only to find a letter waiting under the door.

It was stamped with the bishop’s seal.

He held it in trembling hands, the paper heavier than lead. He didn’t open it immediately. Instead, he sat at the edge of his bed, eyes fixed on the crucifix on his wall.

“I tried,” he whispered.

The silence answered.

Eventually, he unfolded the letter. As he read, each word carved itself into his skin, The letter says :

"Effective immediately, you are hereby suspended from all pastoral duties until the final decision is rendered.

You are to refrain from contact with parishioners, including Isabella Luca.

You are confined to quarters for prayer, reflection, and repentance".

His knees gave out.

He knelt on the cold floor and wept—not for the punishment, but for the shame that clung to him like oil, impossible to scrub clean. His ministry, his identity, his future—it was all unraveling.

And he had no idea how to stop it.

Isabella.

He reached for his phone but paused. Contact was forbidden. Even that small act could be seen as defiance.

He wanted to tell her everything: that he loved her, that he never meant to destroy her peace, that if he could do it all again, he would still choose her.

But silence, cruel and suffocating, was all he had.

And in that silence, a man who had once stood behind an altar now knelt beside a bed—broken, condemned, and more alone than ever.