Chapter Seven: The Choirboys' Gospel
There’s a peculiar kind of silence in the seminary choir room at night.
Not holy.
Not peaceful.
Just… trained.
As if the walls have been conditioned to absorb cries. To hush tremors. To keep secrets under key and note.
Father Ely sat at the far end of the long wooden bench, facing a row of boys no older than sixteen. All of them were dressed in civilian clothes—an effort to make them feel “normal.” But nothing about this was normal.
Not the files in front of him.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡg9livhGFbK
Not the stories echoing in his ears.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEdnZujG5L0
Not the dread clawing at his chest.
Each boy had a version of the same truth:
“Father Emiliano calls us his cherubs.”8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQsy8DPR1fL
“We sleep in his quarters after late services.”8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrSWIsjllMx
“He says some gospels are only meant for special ears.”8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡP8RvJc6MjX
“He kisses us goodnight. Sometimes more.”
The boy who said the last part—Jairo, aged fifteen—had bruises on his collarbone. He claimed they were from a bike accident.
No one questioned it.
Except Ely.
He had gone too far now.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjzJwhdieAN
Beyond confession.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡj4SOFMc3yn
Beyond redemption.
He was no longer acting like a priest. He was acting like a man, defying a system built to protect itself.
The moment he stepped into this role—the protector of the abused—he had become the enemy of the clergy.
But Ely was already prepared to fall.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwC1801bLvF
So long as he didn’t fall alone.
He asked the boys to write statements.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtLNjMvIItO
Not full testimonies. Just letters. Anonymous, if needed.
Some hesitated.
Most obeyed.
Jairo, however, sat still—eyes on his lap, lips trembling.
“He said… if I told anyone, he’d blame me. Say I seduced him.”
Ely’s stomach knotted.
“He said I was already dirty… so no one would care.”
The Church had taught Father Ely many things.
But it never taught him how to protect innocence from the very hands that blessed it.
And so, he took the risk.
He handed Jairo a number—his personal phone.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCIgwzneQ4Q
And a name: Sister Noreen. A nun working with a shelter that hides victims of clergy abuse.
“If anything happens. If he touches you again. Call her. Run. Do not look back.”
Jairo looked up at him then, for the first time.
There were no tears.
Just something far worse.
Resignation.
Two nights later, the seminary went into lockdown.
Jairo was missing.
No calls. No letters. No signs.
And inside his locker, tucked under his hymnals, was a half-finished note:
“Father Emiliano said angels don’t bleed. So why do I still feel dirty?”
Ely lost sleep.
Not out of fear.
But out of purpose.
He was no longer just investigating.
He was hunting.
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