“Forgive me father, for I have sinned,” she says softly, fingers tapping out a beat on the ledge of the grille. Siwon leans forward, ready to listen to a tedious litany of several minor misdemeanours, probably involving men. He's learnt to predict the sins of his flock with near-perfect accuracy. “It has been...several weeks, perhaps months since my last confession.”

“You are here now, my child,” he intones. “And God sees and hears all.”

“Y-yes,” the woman stutters nervously. “I – I, ah...” She trails off, losing her nerve, and he knows that she is one of the penitents he will have to coax a confession out of. Sometimes he wonders why they're so embarrassed; he's heard it all.

“Yes, my child?” He keeps his voice gentle, as fatherly as he can.

“I have been having impure thoughts.” She whispers. Through the tiny slots of the grille, he can see as she bows her head in shame. She had dark hair, he notes curiously. Not that that is unusual in this village – dark hair is common in these parts – but he's not entirely sure he recognises the voice.

“Impure thoughts?” He's not entirely sure he wants to hear what she's about to say – ual fantasises can get so dull when you've heard them all – but it is his duty to absolve her of her sins. And he cannot walk away from his duty, even if he wanted to.

“I have not acted on them!” She adds hastily, and for a second, he sees a flash of of her face as she stares at the grille. Not enough to identify her, but enough to be able to tell she is agitated. “I just...cannot get rid of them. I have tried so hard, father, so hard...but it is impossible.”

“God gives us these trials to test us.” He trots out the well-worn statement he's never been sure of. “He wants us to be strong enough to fight these urges.”

“I do!” She bursts out. “It's just that, lately...” She sighs, the silence heavy. He is glad that he has only opened the confessional to one penitent at a time; if he is honest, he often loses track of who has said what when there are two people confessing at once. “I am...doubting my faith.”

“You doubt your faith in God?” He tries not to sound surprised; he's heard it before – of course he has – but he wasn't entirely expecting the conversation to turn so abruptly.

“Not exactly...” She sighs again, clearly conflicted. “I doubt the practices we are forced to take part in. Why must I feel ashamed for wanting a man?”

He struggles for an answer, as he often does. He's never been able to say anything, but he gets so lonely here in this small village, with no one but a housekeeper and a dog to keep him company. When he was young – first starting out – the idea of making a difference in his parishioners' lives, of instilling in them a love of God as profound as his own – seemed enough to sustain him.

But now, having lived and breathed the church for so many years, he finds it stifling, unfulfilling. He dreads having to tell yet another person they've done wrong when he has done exactly the same thing over and over again. He finds his vow of celibacy almost impossible to adhere to; there have been many times, when he has come so close to propositioning one of the young women in the village. They are willing, some of them. They find the idea of it being forbidden compelling; some of them simply find him attractive.

And yet...he stops himself as soon as the thought comes, locks himself somewhere and jerks himself off as the shame causes his cheeks to burn. He could keep a mistress and no one would be surprised, he knows that. He's considered it, considered giving in – and yet the vows, those stupid, stupid vows he was too young to really make hold him back.

God would be disappointed in him, he tells himself. God would want him to deny his urges.

But that's not enough any more, not really.

It is with effort that he drags himself back to the present. “God just wants us to be the best we can be. To be worthy of his love.” The words are lifeless, pretentious; he's not even sure if he's saying the right lines any more. He's half sure he doesn't believe a word he's saying.

“Oh, and I suppose you'd know that because you speak to him directly?” She says acerbically. He bites back a laugh. If he had a direct channel to God, as he's supposed to, he'd have quite a lot to say to Him.

“God hears everything you tell me.” The old lie. “I am his intermediary.”

“Of course,” she mutters. “Then can you tell Him to stop making me want someone I can never have?”

“Are these impure thoughts perhaps about...a married man?” He asks delicately, a little intrigued as to who this young woman wants so badly.

She laughs, a little sadly. “He might as well be.”

“Then, he is engaged to another woman?” He's probing, and he really shouldn't be, but life is so boring here and he's in an odd mood. He can do penance for his own sins later.

“No, he is not engaged.” Her voice is quiet, and he has to strain to hear her. There's a slight rustling as she shifts uncomfortably in her kneeling position. “He cannot marry.”

He has a heavy sense of foreboding as he asks his next question, and is aware that letting his curiosity get the better of him will not end well – but he doesn't care. “Who is this man?”

Her laugh this time is a short, shocked gasp of nervous surprise at such a direct question. She shifts once more, the pause becoming tense and more than a little worrisome. He considers telling her to forget the question, when she speaks up.

“It's you.”