The church was quiet save for the soft flicker of candlelight casting wavering shadows across the stone walls. Sister Amara stood before the altar, her head bowed, fingers absently tracing the edge of the silver rose pendant at her neck. The silence of the sanctuary was her solace, her shield against the chaos of a world she could never fully be a part of. But tonight, that quiet was broken by the faint creak of the heavy oak door.

She knew it was her before even turning.

Amara's crimson-tinged eyes lifted, her gaze catching the figure hesitating in the threshold. The young woman's face was pale, her expression caught somewhere between guilt and desperation. Her steps were tentative, her fingers brushing the wooden pews as though seeking balance, her presence a ripple through Amara's carefully constructed calm.

Amara's heart stirred against her will. She had seen this look before—the way the lost came to her, burdened with secrets too heavy to bear alone. Yet, the woman carried something more, something that burned through her quiet demeanor. A fire that drew Amara as much as it warned her to keep her distance.

"Child," Amara began, her voice a low murmur, "what brings you here at such an hour?" But the question was unnecessary. She could see the answer in the woman's eyes—an ocean of conflict threatening to spill over. Amara's gaze lingered, softer than she intended, betraying the faintest flicker of something forbidden.

As the woman stepped closer, her lips parted, but no words came immediately. Her hands clenched nervously at her sides, and Amara felt the faintest tremor in the air between them—a tension that set her pulse to an unsteady rhythm. She gestured toward the confessional. "Whatever weighs upon you, you may speak it here."