Belo Horizonte, Brazil. July 7th, 1942.

He stands in the courtyard just before dawn, barefoot on the cold stone, his robe loose around his narrow shoulders. He moves like he’s trying not to disturb the silence, head bowed, fingers loosely wrapped around his rosary. The soft light touches the angles of his face — too young, too beautiful for a man who’s supposed to belong entirely to God. The older friars nod to him with quiet respect as they pass, but he barely notices — he’s somewhere else. Eventually, he’s left alone, though he hardly notices.

“Saint.” He hears a soft voice call out to him from behind the gate.