Father Grundy slides open the confessional window, just a fraction.
Lockdown has interrupted relations with his flock for too many weeks; he is keen to return to this, his favourite duty.
A thin ray of sunlight shines diagonally across the box, picking out particles of shimmering dust that pierce the darkness like an arrow.
Suzanne, a long-time favourite, is first to attend; bursting, anxious to offload her murky thoughts.
Holy water drips from her red-spotted headband and trickles across her bowed forehead as she struggles to speak.
Fidgeting, Father Grundy breathes hard into his ironed cassock, sweating hands clasped together in his lap.
It’s so good to hear your voice again at last.
Catching her breath, she pauses to stroke the gold, embossed letters that decorate the cover of her tiny, white Bible.
The seeds have been re-sown, generous specks of rice falling into flooded fields.
Is it strange they’ve taken so long to germinate?
Opening the window fully, he offers the sign of the cross as he speaks.
Naturally I’ve missed our regular sessions, Suzanne, and am, as always, happy to listen and of course confirm your forgiveness.
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