By Micah Castle

— I —

Father Marcus, late for confession, hurriedly moved down the marble floors of the First Brook Baptist Church, sweat beaded his forehead and his stole looked like it was dancing jerkily with his movements.

Through the high stone archway he entered the main section of the church. Light poured in from the large stain-glass window of Mary near the ceiling, and the pews were washed by multicolor light. But that did not matter to him, someone was waiting, he could see. Across the floor Father Marcus paced, towards the confessional that stood on the other side of the church.

As he grew closer, for whatever unknown reason to him, he inspected the confessional more closely. The color of the wood reminded him of milk chocolate, the yellow tinted glass on both doors brought back faint memories of a book he once read, and the carved, twisting, crucifix etched, wooden support beams were something to admire the most.

His wrinkly hand gripped the black steel handle, and those thoughts quickly vanished. With a sigh, he swung open the door and stepped in.