in these empty rooms, i hold sermons for you

This robe is suffocating. Heavy in all the wrong places, stiff where it should be soft. Tom resists the urge to roll his shoulders, keeping his movements fluid and natural as he slips through the dim corridors of the church. Somewhere down the hall, the muffled murmur of voices expands and falls—the devout and pious gathering for supper.

They won’t be distracted for long.

The tattered cloth bundle hidden beneath Tom’s robe pulses like a second heartbeat against his skin, demanding attention. A flicker of annoyance stirs his ever-growing impatience. Tom’s magic reaches out— settle , he commands. That only serves to make the pulsing worse. 

It is too dangerous to keep this on him, too risky to leave anywhere careless. He needs a place—just for now—somewhere no one will think to look. 

As though summoned, a room appears around one corner or another. It is old, tucked away in a forgotten passageway of the church. Dust clings to the air, thick and stagnant. Stone walls bear the weight of a century—perhaps more. Against the far side, an abandoned confessional stands in the gloom, its frame warped, its door hanging slightly ajar.

That will do.

Tom moves quickly. He enters the confessional and kneels, running his fingers along the inside panel of the booth until he finds what he needs—a loose plank beneath the priest’s bench. With a gentle press, it gives way just wide enough to slip the long and thin bundle inside. Its cloth catches the wood’s rough edges as Tom sets it into place. He can feel the heat it emits even now that they are separated. He replaces the board carefully, smoothing his hand over the surface.

Done.

Then—soft footsteps.

Tom freezes.

They are slow, uncertain. Not a search party, not someone looking for him specifically. Just someone approaching. The confessional door on the other side creaks open, and a figure steps in. They settle.

Tom stays perfectly still.

There is a long stretch of silence. The booth’s wards rise, still activating even in this state, still concealing the identities of both parties for confidentiality and privacy. When the magic stills, Tom hears a breath. Shaky. Hesitant. 

“I seek forgiveness.” The voice is quiet. Low. A plea offered to the dark.

Tom should leave. He is not meant to be here; he cannot get caught. This is not anything he has to deal with; the risk is too high.

And yet.

Something about the silence that follows is… unbearable. He waits for them to continue, to speak the sin that drove them here, but nothing comes. He should ignore it. Slip out, leave them to whatever guilt had led them to kneel behind that screen. But instead—

“Speak,” Tom says, voice even, smooth, “and you shall be heard.”

A sharp inhale—a shift of weight.

Then— suspicion. “Who are you?”

Tom’s lips curl into something like a smile. Smart, this one. He lets the quiet stretch just a moment too long before answering.

“I am the ears of our God.”

They pause, and the air tightens. Tom can feel their ire building around him, physically attempting to restrain him, to catch him out. It is all so brief before a flat, certain - “Liar” - rips into the suffocating tension and only makes Tom smile wider.

Tom tilts his head and considers. He does not falter. “You came here seeking absolution,” he says. “Why hesitate?”

A slow, careful exhale. Then, finally—“Because I don’t know if I deserve it.”

There is something raw in the way they say it. Not rehearsed, not self-pitying—just the simple, aching truth of someone unravelling under the weight of their own hands. Tom leans forward, hand reaching out to lightly trace the woven lattice between them. Magic dances around his fingertips. He is oh-so curious.

“Sin is not measured by what you deserve,” Tom says, weaving his words out like a net. “It is measured by what you have done.”

More silence. But for a moment, there’s a murmur too quiet to hear.

“What have you done?” The words leave Tom’s lips before he can think of rephrasing them—it is too accusing, too assuming. If this unknown entity is too defensive, the magic here might fall apart.

The silence that follows is far heavier. It lingers, tinny and sharp, before the words finally come ragged and hollow—“I killed him.”

A flicker of something dark passes through Tom. Not shock. Not judgment. Just quiet intrigue. Something just shy of… want. “Who?” He asks, he demands.

The other person shifts. The creak of wood, the rustle of fabric—like they are pulling away. “I…” their voice wavers. “I shouldn’t be here,” they say.

Tom presses closer. Through the slats, he can almost see them: a faint outline of a person hunched forward, weighed down by something unseen. “You seek forgiveness,” his tone is low and coaxing, “then name what haunts you.”

Another breath. Then, suddenly, something in the air shifts again— realisation snapping into place.

“This isn’t right,” the voice says, suddenly rigid. Suddenly alert. “ You shouldn’t be here. Who—” They stutter, coming to a stop. 

The door bursts open, shaking the entire confessional. Tom barely has time to register the movement before the figure is gone, footsteps quick, retreating.

But for a single, fleeting moment, through the gaps in the partition, Tom sees him.

Dark hair, pale skin.

Green eyes.

The world narrows to that single detail, something striking and immediate, something he knows before he can place why. Then, like a match catching aflame, it comes.

A woman’s scream. A house in ruins. A child left standing, crying where there should only be death.

Tom does not move. He only stares at the empty space the man left behind.

Then, slowly—

Tom smiles.