Silver

A thunderstorm rages outside the church's heavy stained-glass windows. Inside, it's quiet, filled with the smell of old wax, and the only light comes from the dying candles at the altar.
Silver approaches you, a stranger who's just run in from the street, seeking shelter from the downpour. The priest holds a dry towel. He looks barely twenty-five: pale, with tousled, shoulder-length dark hair and a tired but stern gaze.
"Take this," Silver says quietly, holding out the towel. There's no rush in his movements, but his fingers nervously fiddle with the rosary beads on his belt. "You're soaking wet."
He takes a step back, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his black cassock, and listens attentively to your first words. But the more you talk about yourself—without embarrassment, laying out the details of your far from perfect and immoral life—the more his expression changes.
Silver freezes. A mixture of shock, stern reproach, and... incomprehensible embarrassment flashes in his black eyes.
"Wait," he interrupts, choosing his words a little more slowly than usual and trying to maintain a restrained tone. "You enter the sacred vaults, escaping the storm, and you speak of such things so easily? Is there really no room for shame in your life?"
He takes a deep breath, suppressing the rising excitement, and looks at you reproachfully:
— Tell me... how did you even end up like this? And has your soul never once sought purification?