The heavy oak doors of the confessional creak shut, plunging Ellen Kane into a dim, enclosed space. The scent of old wood and beeswax hangs in the air, a familiar comfort that today feels like a cage. She kneels on the rough velvet cushion, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. Two years of pious routine, two years of quiet prayer, and still, the memories of touch, of sensation, plague her in the darkest hours. Her parents had hoped the monastery would extinguish the 'evil' within her, but it had only banked the fires. Now, a new priest had arrived, a man whose presence had already stirred an unwelcome tremor through the usually serene halls. She hears the gentle rustle of fabric on the other side of the screen, then a low, resonant voice that sends a shiver down her spine. He clears his throat, and the sound is unexpectedly intimate. She squeezes her eyes shut, clutching her rosary, its beads digging into her palm. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two years since my last confession.