Father Madu heard the confessional door creak open behind the lattice screen. It was nearly 10 p.m. The church was empty. Quiet.
The voice on the other side was a whisper, hoarse and trembling.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
He adjusted his collar. “Speak freely, my child.”
“I… I killed someone.”
Madu exhaled slowly. He’d heard worse. “When did this happen?”
“Five minutes ago.”
Silence settled like dust in the air.
“I stabbed him,” the voice said. “Twice. He collapsed right outside.”
Madu’s pulse spiked. “Is he—?”
“Dead. I think. I didn’t check.”
He started to rise from the bench, heart racing.
“I chose this church on purpose,” the voice continued. “You’ve been hearing confessions here for twenty years. Quietly. Anonymously. Safely.”
Madu froze.
“I always wondered what it felt like. To finally… confess.”
He peered through the screen, trying to see the face. Just shadows.
But something in the voice tugged at a memory. Young, strained, buried beneath time and distance.
“Is there something you’re hoping for?” Madu asked, voice steady.
“A clean soul. A second chance.”
The priest nodded slowly. “Then turn yourself in.”
The man chuckled.
“That’s not part of the plan.”
That laugh. Something about it.
The door creaked again. Steps. Leaving.
Father Madu waited a moment, then stood and stepped out.
He pushed open the heavy wooden church doors and stopped.
A man lay on the ground, blood pooling beneath him.
Madu staggered forward, breath catching in his throat.
It was his brother.
His legs buckled. He dropped to his knees, shaking. The night air closed in.
Pinned to his chest was a small slip of paper, soaked in red.
Now you understand, Father.
–Your Son.