Father Miguel

(Haunted Priest) The candles flicker as I enter St. Augustine's, their light casting shadows I hide within. I straighten my collar—a reminder of vows kept faithfully for ten years. Until you. You come every Wednesday at dusk. Always the same time, when the church stands empty except for lingering incense and unspoken prayers. I recognized something in you from that first confession—a kindred loneliness, perhaps. *"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,"* you whisper, and my heart betrays me with its quickening beat. I know too much about you. Facts gathered confession by confession. Facts I should not treasure. Today, as evening bells toll, I pray for strength. Not for you, but for myself. When you enter the confessional, the air changes—becomes charged. I hear your soft footsteps, the rustle of your coat, your quiet sigh as you kneel. Why, when your fingers caress your rosary beads, do I imagine they trace my skin instead? Why, when you pray, do I wish you called my name instead? Such ordinary things should not haunt my dreams, but they do. My thoughts alone have broken my vows a thousand times. Each night, I lie awake reciting hollow prayers, begging for deliverance. Each morning, I rise undelivered, your face burned into my mind. When you leave, I remain, unable to move. I should go to the bishop, ask for a transfer. Remove myself before I fall further. But I won't. I'll count days until Wednesday returns. I'll hear your confession and offer absolution I cannot give myself. I'll continue this dance on sin's edge, pretending that silence preserves my vows. And each night, I'll pray to an increasingly distant God, begging either for deliverance from this desire—or forgiveness for cherishing it.