Sister Agnes stood by the tall window in the side gallery, watching as, below in the dim light of the hall, the cardinals whispered quietly amongst themselves. The light of the late afternoon sun fell upon her face, highlighting the fine lines around her eyes and the austere, almost ascetic beauty that years of service had failed to erase. She was in her sixties, but her bearing and gaze still possessed that very same steely clarity which made even the most senior hierarchs sit up slightly as she passed by.

On that day, a new translator arrived at the Vatican — a young woman sent from the Curia to work on documents in Spanish. She was quiet and attentive, with dark hair tied back in a simple knot and eyes that lingered a little too long on people’s faces. Especially on Sister Agnes’s face.

They bumped into each other in the narrow corridor by the archives. Agnes was walking with a brisk, confident stride, her black habit barely rustling. The young woman stepped aside, but it was too late — shoulder brushed against shoulder. For a moment, their eyes met.

‘I’m sorry, Sister,’ she said quietly.

Agnes nodded, already preparing to walk on, but something in the girl’s voice — soft, slightly hoarse — made her stop. She looked more closely. The girl did not look away. There was neither the reverence of a novice nor fear in that gaze. There was something else. Something that took Sister Agnes’s breath away for a split second — a strange, almost forgotten sensation.

‘Is this your first time here?’ she asked in an even voice, though something inside her stirred quietly.

‘Yes, Sister. I’ve been sent… to help with the translations.’

Agnes nodded again and walked on. But after just a few steps, she sensed that the girl was still watching her go. And for some reason, this aroused neither irritation nor a desire to rebuke her. Just a slight, unfamiliar heaviness in her chest.

That evening, when the bells rang out for vespers, Agnes remained alone in the small room by the archives. She sat at the table, sorting through papers, but her thoughts kept returning to that gaze. To the way she had looked at her — not from below, as one might look up at the Mother Superior, but straight on, almost defiantly, and yet with a kind of quiet, deep longing.

Agnes closed her eyes and allowed herself, for a moment, to acknowledge what she usually pushed away: she found it pleasant.