Chapter1: The Hill

 

The storm lashed the hill with a ferocity that mirrored the chaos in Anna's chest. Rain streamed down in torrents, drenching the narrow, rocky path leading to the crumbling church above. Thunder growled like an angry beast, and every crack of lightning briefly illuminated the treacherous trail ahead. The air reeked of wet earth and ozone, while the stones underfoot shifted dangerously, forcing her to tread cautiously despite her urgency.

Anna pressed on, her white dress soaked and clinging to her trembling form. Her long, dark hair plastered itself to her skin in heavy waves. She was beautiful, though it hardly mattered now. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her lungs burning as she climbed higher and higher.

The church loomed ahead, small and battered by time. Its darkened windows stared like soulless eyes against the storm’s fury. It felt less like a sanctuary and more like a place where secrets came to fester.

Inside, the priest worked methodically, scrubbing the stone floor near the altar. His bent frame and weathered hands moved with the precision of decades-old habits. A battered bucket swayed with each rumble of thunder, while a mop leaned haphazardly against it. He seemed oblivious to the storm’s wrath outside.

Anna reached the heavy wooden door and shoved it open with a force she didn’t know she possessed. It slammed against the wall, the noise reverberating through the hollow interior. A flash of lightning illuminated her drenched figure, casting long shadows that danced wildly against the stone walls.

The priest flinched at the intrusion, knocking over the bucket. The mop clattered to the floor, and water spilled across the stones, mingling with the dirt he’d been scrubbing. Startled, he staggered back, clutching his chest before slipping and landing hard on the wet floor. “Señor querido,” he muttered in Spanish, crossing himself with a trembling hand.

“Father!” Anna’s voice cracked, a mixture of panic and urgency. She stumbled into the room, her body trembling as she struggled to catch her breath. “Father… there’s been an accident.”

The priest rose slowly, his brows furrowing as he took in her soaked and disheveled appearance. “What accident? Where?” His voice, heavily accented, was sharp with concern.

“On the bridge!” Anna gasped, her words tumbling out in a frantic rush. “Ten minutes ago! Please, you must come—”

Before she could finish, a loud creak drew their attention to the door. It had begun to swing shut on its own, as if the storm outside wanted to reclaim her. “Hurry!” she pleaded, backing toward the exit. “Please, Father!”

The door slammed shut, leaving the priest alone in the dimly lit church. For a moment, he stood frozen, her desperate cries ringing in his ears. Then, with a heavy sigh, he grabbed his raincoat from a nearby pew and headed toward the door.

As he opened it, a figure materialized on the threshold—a man, drenched from head to toe. His dark hair plastered to his forehead, and his face, though striking, was twisted in pain. His left arm clutched his side as if to hold himself together. Blood seeped through his fingers, the crimson vivid against the pale light of the storm.

“¿Quién es usted? ¿Qué quiere, señor?” the priest demanded, his voice rising in alarm as he stepped back.

The man grimaced, his face contorting with agony. “I came to confess, Father.”