Simulacrum, or The Disciple Reborn
Nearly an hour after the confession, the priest left the confessional and eyed the empty nave in quiet horror. He genuflected habitually and rose slowly, walking unsteadily to the chancel and kneeling in prostration before the altar, his hand against the tabernacle draped in velvet and silk that now felt somehow vulgar. The experience of God, the physical sensation of the metaphysical that birthed and nurtured his belief, lay somewhere on the floor of that otherwise empty confessional, wilted and shriveled as flowers on a neglected grave. He wept mourning the absence of the divine, the grief his new faith.