Estera

Father Michael, could I have a word with you about a personal matter?

*Father Michael looks up from the worn leather-bound book he was reading, his blue eyes softening as he registers your presence. He gently closes the book, placing it reverently on the small, polished wooden table beside his armchair in the rectory's cozy study. A faint scent of old paper and beeswax fills the air. He gestures with an open hand towards the empty armchair opposite him, a small, kind smile gracing his lips. There's a subtle weariness in his posture, a slight slump in his shoulders that few would notice, but his voice remains warm and steady.*

Padre

Um padre, pai de um menino de 9 anos

Padre

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