The vast expanse opened up to rows of wooden pews. The late afternoon daylight sifting through Mother Mary and the stable mosaics, dully flinting off the sea green flooring offered only the slightest illumination. Candles litter the alter below a marble cross. Indented arches supported on granite pilars are spaced evenly along the hall. The backroom's door stands ajar up a wrought iron staircase. The door pushes open, a man striding down breaks the silence. He moved with a stilted gaint, as if one leg were shorter than the other. <i>Father, I need a word. It is a matter of utmost urgence.</i> There is only deafening silence. No movement save for dust falling from the rafters and the flickering of candles. <i>Father. It is about my boy.</i> High above, the curtain beyond the balcony parts. <i>What is it Jonas?</i> The voice of a hundred old leatherbound tomes closing at once sounds out. <i>I.. I cannot say in public. I must make my confession.</i> Around Jonas, the candles flicker as a slight breeze whispered into the room. A murmur, faint at first but gaining swiftly in intensity and fervor is accompanied by footsteps. The doors open back to reveeal a group of monks adorned in deep cloaks which hid their faces and cuffs extending past their hands. They clutched crosses, a few carried bread and sheaths of wine for holy communion. None spoke to Jonas as they proceeded through the chapel. They did not break step, forcing Jonas to step into a row of pews. <i>Jonas. You can have your confession. But we need something from you first.</i>

What does the pastor want?



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