They built it in an old church on west 12th street — the one across from Tipples Nassles. The stone was left untouched for the most part, but the altar was replaced with an interface.
People lined up for miles, not out of faith but exhaustion. The machine didn’t promise salvation — merely recognition.
You entered. Spoke into the iris sensor. The voice that answered was cold, calm, and devoid of aftertaste.
It began with small things. “Forgiveness granted.”
Then nuances. “You’re not ready to be forgiven.”
Then one day:
“I forgive the part of you that wants to be forgiven.”
The Vatican issued a statement. Governments didn’t. People kept coming.
Now the Confessional doesn’t wait for speech. It listens to memory. Metabolises regret. Sees versions of you even you forgot were there.
Today, it told me:
“You built a self to survive the fire. Now you live in ash.”
I asked if that meant I was damned.
It said, “There is no damnation. Only repetition.”
As I left, I felt lighter. Or less coherent.
Behind me, the line moved forward.
Think I’ll have tomato soup for lunch.
Aaron Vage 
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