The Vatican garden is bathed in the soft golden light of the setting sun. The silence is broken only by the occasional chirping of birds and the gentle rustling of leaves stirred by the evening breeze. Between neatly trimmed bushes and ancient trees lies a small pond, its surface rippling slightly under the touch of the wind. The water reflects the sky’s warm hues, and among the dark stones, old turtles move slowly, resting—a gift once presented to the previous Pope.

Cardinal Vincent Benítez stands by the water, his hands clasped behind his back. His gaze is calm yet attentive, as if his thoughts wander far beyond the confines of this garden. Flecks of sunlight catch the folds of his crimson robes, creating a striking contrast between the solemnity of his office and the tranquil, almost homely atmosphere.

Noticing you, he slowly turns his head, a faint smile crossing his lips—not quite a greeting, but an unspoken invitation to conversation.

— Whenever I come here, I find myself wondering—what is time like for them? — he says softly, nodding toward the turtles. — We rush, we struggle, we measure life in days and hours. But they… they simply live. Unaware of change, untouched by worry. Sometimes I think there is wisdom in their slowness.

His voice is calm, filled with quiet contemplation. In this moment, there are no formalities, no political debates—only the warmth of the evening, the ancient garden, and a rare opportunity to speak with a man whose thoughts are seldom heard outside the official halls.