Lundi Gras

Midnight was approaching without announcement.

The French Quarter hummed differently now.
The laughter had grown looser.
The music sharpened at the edges.

Somewhere, someone counted down, though most people didn’t need to.

They felt it.

Marie walked toward St. Louis Cathedral.

She did not rush. She did not hesitate.

The sky above Jackson Square was deep blue, nearly black. The cathedral stood pale against it, steady and older than everything happening around it. Candles flickered inside. The doors were still open.

It was Lundi Gras.
Fat Monday.
It was almost Mardi Gras Tuesday.

She stepped inside.

The air changed immediately—cooler, quieter. The scent of wax and old wood replaced sugar and coffee. The echo of the city softened behind her.

She paused in the aisle.

Rows of empty pews stretched forward. A few late-night visitors knelt in silence. No one looked at her.

The clock struck twelve.

Somewhere outside, a cheer rose.

Inside, nothing moved.

She walked toward the side chapel. Toward the confessional.

A shadow detached from one of the columns near the back. Calm. Unhurried. It moved with purpose, crossed the tiled floor, and slipped into the confessional booth.

The door closed.

Marie watched for one full breath.

Then she walked forward.

Her steps were steady, making no sound beyond the faint brush of her shoes against stone.

She opened the other side door of the confessional and stepped inside. The wood was worn smooth by decades of hands. The small screen between the compartments glowed faintly with candlelight from the other side.

There was silence.

Then a voice. Low. Controlled.

“You’re on time.”

Marie sat.

“Yes.”

A pause.

“You came alone?”

“Yes.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

Outside, the bells began to ring. Midnight had been fully claimed. Mardi Gras Tuesday had arrived.

Through the thin lattice screen, she saw only shadow.

“You understand the terms,” the voice said.

“I do.”

There was no tremor in her voice. No uncertainty.

“You’re certain.”

“Yes.”

The city erupted again outside—cheers, distant brass, a rolling wave of celebration.

Inside the confessional, the air remained still.

“You’ve built the system?” the voice asked.

“It’s operational.”

“And contained?”

“Yes.”

A measured silence followed.

Marie’s expression did not change. Her breathing remained even. She could have been discussing a software deployment. She could have been ordering coffee.

“Then we proceed,” the voice said.

A faint slide of paper passed through the narrow opening beneath the screen.

Coordinates.
A time.
A single phrase.

She read it once.

Folded it.

Tucked it into the inside pocket of her coat.

“No further contact,” the voice said.

“I know.”

The other side door opened first.

Footsteps receded.

Marie remained seated for a moment longer.

Not in prayer.

Not in doubt.

Just still.

Outside, Mardi Gras roared to life.

Inside, she stood.

She opened her door and stepped back into the cathedral. The candles flickered. The pews remained unchanged. The few visitors remained kneeling.

No one looked up.

She walked toward the exit.

At the threshold, she paused only briefly.

Then she stepped into the night.

The celebration swallowed her immediately—color, music, movement. She moved through it untouched. Calm. Focused.

Software developer by day.

But that was not the whole of her.

Not even close.

She disappeared into the crowd as the bells continued to ring.

Mardi Gras had begun.

⚜

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Aaron Rose is a software engineer and technology writer at tech-reader.blog and aaronrose.blog.