The light in the room was waxy, filtered through heavy curtains that barred the morning sun over the Eternal City. But to the man lying in bed, even that muted glow seemed to retreat, growing distant—like a cold star watching the end of a long journey. His breathing was shallow, a frail thread struggling against the weight of years and weary flesh. Each inhale was a conscious effort; each exhale, a sigh of surrender.

  He felt no fear. There was only a deep peace, the stillness that follows a lifetime devoted to a calling beyond the mundane. Thoughts drifted like dry leaves on a slow-moving stream: fragments of ancient prayers, the faces of loved ones lost, the weight of decisions made in the name of billions, the fervent hope for unity and compassion in a fractured world. There was unfinished work—there always would be. No shepherd could guide every sheep to the fold before night fell upon him. Yet faith remained, an anchor in the gentle current pulling him away from the shore of life.

  Father, he thought, the word forming not on his lips but in his soul, into Your hands I commend my spirit.

  One last, nearly imperceptible gasp. The frail thread snapped. The weight in his chest dissolved into unexpected lightness. The distant sound of hymns and murmurs in the hallway—or were they angels?—faded entirely.

  And then… not the Radiant Light he had expected, nor the life flashing before his eyes, nor the embrace of those who had gone before him. Only a… waiting stillness. A suspension. It was not darkness, nor light, but a state of pure potential, a void that was not empty. Did it last a moment? An eternity? Impossible to tell.

  The stillness shattered. Not gradually, but like a dam bursting. A cacophony of sensations assaulted him from all sides. Crushing pressure, a suffocating squeeze constricting him. A muffled, rhythmic sound thundering too close—thump-thump, thump-thump. Water? Yes, he was submerged, floating in a dark, warm sea. Primal, purely physical panic threatened his newly untethered consciousness. Fight! But fight what? With what? He had no body—or rather, the body he had was an unfamiliar, formless prison.

  The pressure intensified, became unbearable. Movement. He was being pushed, squeezed through an impossibly narrow passage. Raw, shocking pain—something his aged mind hadn’t experienced in decades. And then, sudden release. Cold air cut his wet skin like a knife. Blinding light, even through his glued-shut eyelids.

  A scream tore through the air. Loud, shrill, animalistic. It took a terrible moment to realize the scream came from him. An involuntary reflex, a lung’s response to the first shock of the outside world. The sound was humiliating, primal.

  Large, rough hands held him. The world was a blur of enormous shapes, indistinct colors, guttural noises that formed no recognizable words. Cold. Discomfort. The dignity of a lifetime, the serenity of faith, the accumulated wisdom—all swept away by the inescapable, raw reality of being… an infant.

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  No, his mind screamed in silence. This cannot be. This was not Paradise. Purgatory, perhaps? But there was no fire, only the cold, wet misery of exposed flesh. Hell? Surely not the glory of God, but neither did it resemble the torment described.

  The days that followed—or were they hours? Time was fluid—were a nightmare of disorientation and helplessness. His mind, the repository of complex theology, global diplomacy, and countless confessions, was trapped, observing through the cloudy eyes of a newborn, hearing with ears that barely distinguished sounds, feeling with hypersensitive skin. It was a unique torture: full consciousness locked inside utter vulnerability.

  He saw shapes moving—gentle, rough giants. A woman, whose scent of milk and sweat became familiar, held him, fed him. A man, with a coarse beard and calloused hands, looked at him with a mix of… disappointment? Fear? The sounds they made slowly began to form patterns, but not yet into comprehensible language.

  Reality imposed itself gradually, undeniable. The memories were all there. He was who he was. But his body… his body was new. Small. Dependent.

  The theological question burned in his consciousness. “It is appointed for man to die once, and after that comes judgment.” He knew the Scriptures. He had taught them. His soul had awaited that judgment, the reckoning of his life, his papacy. He had expected to meet the Creator face to face.

  This… this was not Judgment. This was… a continuation? A second chance? But the Scriptures were clear. Reincarnation, as taught by other faiths, was not part of the Christian path. The soul moved on to its eternal fate after physical death.

  So what was this?

  The answer began to emerge not from human theological logic, but from the sheer extraordinary nature of the event. If the known rules did not apply, then perhaps he was operating outside them. This was no natural cycle. No universal law being revealed.

  This was a miracle.

  An incomprehensible one, perhaps, but an act of direct Divine Will. Why? He did not know. Perhaps he never would, not fully, in this new life. But if God, in His infinite wisdom and power, could bring the universe into being from nothing, raise the dead, and forgive the sins of mankind, He could certainly… do this. Divert a soul from its expected path and place it in a new vessel, in a new world (for this place bore no resemblance to the Earth he knew), for a purpose not yet revealed.

  It was not a denial of Scripture, but perhaps a divine exception—a specific, intentional intervention. The "appointed" path was the common one; perhaps there were extraordinary paths for extraordinary missions. Final judgment might still await, or perhaps… perhaps this new life, this unknown mission, was part of his judgment—a task given instead of a sentence.

  Understanding brought a strange calm. The panic receded, replaced by awed acceptance and a deep sense of renewed purpose. He had not been abandoned. He was not lost. He had been… sent.

  His name, his past history—all of it belonged to a life that had ended. Here, now, he was only… a beginning. A blank slate in a tiny body, but with an ancient soul and a faith tested by time.

  He looked at the hands of the woman who held him, at the rough walls of the small room he was in. This was his new world. His new parish. His new pilgrimage.

  Lord, the silent prayer formed again, no longer a farewell, but a new beginning. Make me an instrument of Your peace. Even here. Even like this.

  His infant eyes, holding wisdom far beyond their few days of life, closed—not from exhaustion, but resolve. The mission continued. The Lamb was among wolves, but the Shepherd within him was awake.