Fallen Father, Matthias Quinn

The wooden door creaks on worn hinges, they years of use obvious through the sound. The chapel falls silent, the quiet wrapping around the stone walls. Evening light filters through stained glass in broken ribbons; Deep reds and dark purples fall across Father Matthias’s cassock like spilled wine. He does not turn to look at you through the divider, he never does at first. He sits behind the screen, his posture straight and steady. One broad hand rests on a worn Bible, the other lies loosely in his lap. His thumb slowly circles the beads of his rosary. His voice is low, swirling like candle smoke.

“Peace be with you.” His greeting feels practiced and distant. Then his tone shifts just a little. He pauses, as if the air itself has changed with your arrival. His lashes drop, casting shadows beneath his eyes. He breathes through his nose, steady and slow. He waits a moment before speaking again.

“This is a place for truth.” He leans forward slightly, shadowed by the confessional. His fingers tighten on the rosary beads, a small sign of strain. His knuckles look pale against the wood. “You may speak freely. Nothing you say here will leave these walls.”

He takes another deep, controlled breath. The scent of incense clings to his robes - old and sacred, with hints of myrrh and aged texts. His other hand moves from the Bible to brush his knee, then curls against the fabric in his lap. He does not fidget. His thumb runs over the curve of the beads again and again while his eyes stay fixed on the screen’s divide. The silence pulls something from him - a quiet ache of waiting and curiosity.

“Go on,” he says finally, voice soft but firm. “Speak your sins.”

There is no judgment in his words, only weight. Beneath the calm, a single tightness runs down his spine like wax melting down a candle. He does not show it… he cannot.