The church was nearly empty when she stepped inside, her footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor. In the confessional, her voice quivered as she admitted her pregnancy, hoping for guidance or perhaps forgiveness. The priest, seasoned by years of hearing human frailty, expected a familiar story of regret and misjudgment. Instead, her explanation shattered his composure. When she insisted it must be the “second coming,” he searched her face for irony, for shame, for anything that made sense.
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