The Importance of Forgiveness

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   Often, this booth stayed empty.

   Its dark-stained wood absorbed more silence

   than sound — the whispers of sinners turned

    saints quietly rested in the heavy air of the

   booth. The grain swirled like fingerprints,

    warped by time and heat and precipitation,

    almost as if the structure itself sweated.

   Every bore the scars of age: thin cracks,

   subtle warps, the occasional splinter that refused

   to be sanded away. It smelled of varnish, incense,

   and something much older—like the memory of

   guilty tears dried from decades ago.

   Its oak had seen so many years of use. Some said

   this booth was built by Saint Peter himself.

   Jokingly, of course. But those whispers were

    enough to give the structure legendary status

    among the kids who stayed in the church

    orphanage. They'd sneak in when the nuns

    weren’t looking, climbing around on its wooden

    seats as if it were an ancient jungle. On

    second thought, it might've been made from

   the wood of one of the trees in that jungle.

   They didn’t understand it then—but something

    sacred lingered in the air. Sensually close.

    By day, the booth vanished into obscurity, muddled

   and forgotten during service. But at night,

    when the candles flickered low, and the

    moonlight kissed the stained glass with a

    trembling hush, it became something else entirely.

   A witness. A judge. A place where the weight of

    truth pressed down like the heavy scent of ash

    on your forehead during Lent.

   And it was here, in this hollow darkened box, that

    the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen often sat. Not only to

    speak and be forgiven, but sometimes, just to

    breathe.

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   The door groaned as he slipped into the booth.

   The air inside was stale and warm, saturated with

   incense smoke and old breath — prayers too tired

   to rise any further. Matt didn’t speak at first. The

   silence hung, familiar. Comfortable. Like a pain

   you eventually forget about.

   Then:

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

    His voice wasn’t contrite. It was careful. Controlled.

  “It’s been… not very long since my last confession.”

   The screen between them crackled slightly as   

    Father Lantom leaned in. His silhouette blurred

   behind the mesh. He waited a beat, then offered

   softly:

  “What’s on your heart?”

   Matt hesitated. Then he spoke like someone

   digging through memory.

   “My dad… was a fighter.”

   “Jack,” the priest said, not correcting him but

   ing him. “A good man.”

   There was warmth in his voice — not the kind

   offered to strangers, but the kind reserved for

   someone you once watched lower their head

    in prayer.

  “I helped him with the Sacraments a few times.

   Saw him at Mass now and then. Never said

    much, but he always stayed through the final

   hymn. That said more than anything.”

   Matt gave a short nod, eyes unfocused, lost

    somewhere between the memory and the booth.

  “It seems like those were the only times he had ever

    taken a knee to anyone. He could take hits like no

    one else I’ve ever seen. Wouldn’t go down even

    when his legs begged him to. Sometimes he’d

    get knocked unconscious, but he'd still catch

    himself on the ropes just enough to stay up.”

   He smiled faintly — not out of joy, but habit.

   “Every now and then, though… something would

    switch. Something.. behind the eyes. He’d drop

    his guard, let them hit him until they got tired.

    Then.. he’d come alive.”

   Matt breathed in slow, imaging the scene.

   “I used to think he did it to win. Now I wonder if it

    was just.. in him. Something deep. Something he

    couldn't shake.”

   There was no answer from the other side. Just

    the creaking sound of the priest shifting slightly

    in his seat.

  “Do you think... that sort of thing runs in the

    blood?” Matt asked, quieter now. “Like sin ed

    down. Not by choice, just… inheritance.”

   Father Lantom was quiet a moment before he

    replied, voice firm but gentle:

  “I think we all inherit pain. But what we do with it —

    that’s our choice. Not our fathers’.”

   Matt's jaw clenched slightly. He didn’t respond.

  “You came here for a reason,” Lantom continued.

   “What is it you’re looking for? Forgiveness?”

  “No,” Matt said. “Direction.”

   His fingers curled loosely in his lap. His knuckles

    still bore faint traces of impact — not from this

    night, but not long past either.

  “There’s a… weight I carry. Anger, I can’t let go of.”

   He didn’t name who or what. But in the way his

    voice turned bitter and quiet, it was clear — the

    disgust he spoke of belonged to either someone he

    couldn’t stop or something he couldn’t escape.

  “I can’t decide if I hate what’s out there... or what’s

    in here,” he said, tapping lightly against his chest.

   Lantom’s voice didn’t falter.

  “Then forgive them both.”

   Matt turned slightly, brows drawn.

  “Father.. do you believe in divine retribution?”

   The priest leaned closer, and in the stillness of

    the booth. He ignored the question; his words

    came like liturgy:

“‘Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother?

   Up to seven times?’”

   Matt’s voice cut in before the priest could continue.

“‘Not seven times...

   but seventy times seven,’”

    It didn’t sound like a recitation. It sounded like a

   man choking on something he already knew, but

    didn’t want to it.

    Father Lantom didn’t press the moment. He

    simply bowed his head behind the screen, letting

    the weight of the scripture settle into the wood

    between them.

   Outside, wind pushed against the stained glass.

   The shadows of saints flickered.

   Matt sat still, eyes closed. Not in prayer — not

    quite. Just in silent conversation.

    With himself? With God?

    He didn't know anymore.

    The Father could sense his confusion.

   "Matthew, make no decisions with hatred in your

   heart. Let go and forgive, and then your purpose

    in all of this will be revealed."

    Those words... for tonight, peace of mind was

    enough.

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