The Priest’s Roses

He was a man of God, sworn to silence, sworn to purity.
Yet each full moon, he left the chapel doors ajar and walked barefoot through the night, guided by nothing but his hunger.

In the hidden quarters of the city lived a courtesan whose eyes carried storms and whose roses perfumed the air long before her voice was heard. He visited her, always at midnight, always in shadow. They never spoke of love. They only shared the silence between their bodies.

Years passed, and he grew old. His sermons remained fiery, his hands remained steady. To the world, he was unshaken. But on his deathbed, as his eyes dimmed, the townsfolk buried him with roses, not lilies. Roses. Red, fragrant, undeniable.

The only roses in the city that ever grew in her window.

 “Every secret love leaves its scent.”