The Young Pope sits alone in the Apostolic Palace, the red shoes removed, his bare feet resting on cold marble. A camera slowly zooms in. He speaks, his voice trembling, eyes glistening with tears:
“They say the Knights Templar were destroyed.
Burned. Betrayed.
But in Portugal… they survived.
Not as warriors.
Not as kings.
But as the Order of Christ.”
He looks out the window toward the dying sun.
“Portugal… the last refuge of sacred memory.
While the rest of Christendom fell into confusion and profit,
They remembered.”
He swallows hard, almost choking on the weight of his words.
“I miss Him.
I miss Our Lord Jesus Christ.
Not as symbol.
Not as doctrine.
But as Person.
As Friend.”
He grips a small golden crucifix in his palm until his knuckles turn white.
“Sometimes I wish…
I could just dial 9-1-1.
An emergency line straight to Heaven.
‘Please… Lord…
come now.
The world is dying of its sin.
Come and take it away.
Like You once did, Lamb of God.
Do it again.'”
The room falls silent. The wind rustles through a curtain.
He places his hand over his heart.
“But I am just the Pope.
A man in white robes
crying in the dark
for the return of Light.”