“I form the light, and create darkness: I make peace, and create evil: I the Lord do all these things.”

 Isaiah 45:7

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Eli watched as the Father slid open the confessional screen. He sat hunched in the narrow booth, fingers pressed against the cold wood, tracing grooves worn smooth by decades of trembling hands. His own hands stayed steady; his bouncing knee was the only betrayer of his nerves.

“Speak, my child, and let your burden be made known.”

The Father’s voice came back strong and thick — Louisiana born and bred, Eli guessed — the accent heavy on the Chahld. He’d heard so many accents over the last three months that they blurred together. What possessed him to enter the house of God was a mystery too.

The chapel was cold. Is this truly your house? No answer came. Eli knew better than to expect one. God only answered when it suited Him. His breath drifted out warm and visible, a low morning mist across the wooden grate. A lake of confession between him and the Father.

“My name is Eli James, and I am dead—”

“My child, you are sitting right in front of me.”

There it is again. Chahld. I am no child of yours.

“Let me finish, Father.” Eli’s voice grew stern. He looked down at his knees, the fabric of his jeans worn and tattered.

A creak from the chapel nave startled him. He stole a quick glance over his shoulder, leg bouncing harder now. Memories of home rose unbidden. The creaky floorboard on the porch Dad had promised to fix but never did, the sound that had become part of home itself. Except Eli was far from home.

“I apologise. Do continue.”

“Sorry, Father. I just don’t know who else to turn to.”

Eli looked up and saw the faint outline of the priest behind the lattice, just a silhouette framed by a thin spill of chapel light. This man had devoted his life to the one they called God. He had preached His teachings and told His stories in the hope of making the few who came here better people. Can I really take that away from him?

“The Lord’s house is open to all who seek it. Say what you must.”

“No—” Eli breathed deep. In. And out. In. And out. Just like Grams had taught him on his first day of elementary school, when all he’d done was cry and promise, I am not going to school. “No, not the Lord’s house, Father. I need your house. Because, Father… I walked with God. And I wish I hadn’t.”