A Second Chance
That day was anything but ordinary for the inmate in cell 232. Although his morning had begun just like every other over the past ten years, the distant sound of the earliest risers bathing themselves with splashes from plastic bowls echoed through the air. The biting cold made him shudder beneath his thin white sheet. Murmurs in a dozen different languages started as an barely audible whisper, gradually swelling until they became the characteristic drone of a beehive. He preferred to wait and do his morning wash only when the sunlight finally peeked through the small cutouts carved high up in the thick stone wall.
Inside that two-by-three-meter cell sat a one-meter-wide bed, a rudimentary toilet bowl, and a water tap fixed nearly flush with the floor. His sole possession was a multipurpose metal bowl: it served as a tray for his single daily meal, a cup for drinking water, a makeshift mirror, a bucket for bathing, and occasionally, a toy to spin on the floor just to pass the hours. Seldom was the morning stillness broken. Some of the inmates would whistle or sing while stretching their legs beside their cots or while relieving themselves; it was impossible to tell if they were truly content with their confinement, but their demeanor carried a strange, unsettling sense of being safe.
The facility consisted of a long corridor with a single sharp bend, giving the layout the impression of a massive “U”. It spanned about three meters wide and reached an estimated height of four meters. There was no electricity; visibility existed only because the solid ceiling featured a one-square-meter skylight positioned dead center every five meters down the hallway. Whenever it rained, the water drained through floor channels that helped clear away the grime and wash out the cells. The architecture of this prison was such that the slightest sound produced an echo that reverberated perfectly throughout the entire compound.
Every inmate looked forward to the third day, when a guard would roll in with a cart loaded with fresh changes of clothes. The screech of the wheels was maddening, but because they were so punctual, the prisoners braced themselves for the auditory torture. It was well worth it: the sensation of putting on clean clothes was a welcome luxury. The garments were simple, woven and stitched by hand from a rugged canvas material that felt slightly coarse when freshly washed, though it softened quickly against the skin. At times, the stench of sweat became utterly unbearable by the time the clothes were soiled again.
On this particular morning, however, the laundry cart wasn’t expected, and mealtime was still hours away. For that reason, an eerie tension filled the air when the heavy metal padlock was heard clicking open. The thick doors let out the agonizing wail of hinges that hadn’t seen grease in who knows how long. Footsteps fell in a rhythmic, measured cadence: two pairs of feet. Without uttering a single word, the newcomers passed the midpoint of the “U” and halted right outside cell 232. A profound silence fell over every other inmate; if a fly had buzzed, the sound would have echoed through all 450 cells in the block. The heavy calm was sliced open by the deep, raspy intake of air from a plump monk-turnkey, who clutched a ring of massive, ancient keys in his hand. A moment later, he barked a name:
“Carlos Eduardo Mancía Lara!”
“I am here...” Carlos answered from the shadows within.
“The time has come. His Holiness awaits you.”
“Then let us not keep His Holiness waiting...”
Carlos stood up and faced the door. Having remained shut for ten long years, the screeching protest of the metal filled the entire prison as it swung open. Stepping out, he failed to recognize either of the two monks awaiting him, both clad in black robes and leather sandals. They held a thick length of hemp rope; without needing an explanation, he understood he had to turn around and present his back to be bound. He watched the door of “his” cell slam shut—this time, with him on the outside. It was only then that he noticed a placard mounted just beneath the digits 232, which read: 1 Samuel 2:32.
Carlos muttered to himself that it felt like a fitting verse for the space he had inhabited: “And thou shalt see an enemy in my habitation, in all the wealth which God shall give Israel: and there shall not be an old man in thine house for ever.” As he began to walk toward the exit, he noticed that every single cell door had a biblical verse engraved upon it; the sequential number of the cell aligned flawlessly with the scripture. A faint smile crossed his face as he tried to read the passages he found easiest to recall.
Suddenly, something unsettled Carlos. As they neared the exit, his nerves heightened with the sudden, overwhelming sensation that something colossal was lurking nearby—not outside, but within a cell close to the exit: cell 65. Every single one of his senses screamed a warning. Passing that door took only a second, but it was a second that stretched into an eternity. He understood someone was inside; even behind the eight-inch-thick sheet of metal that formed the prison doors, the occupant’s gaze could be felt. It was a powerful, piercing stare that looked not at him, but into him. He couldn’t explain how he could feel someone scrutinizing his very soul, but Carlos felt it. In that fleeting instant, he saw himself as something small and insignificant against a presence far too vast and immense to comprehend—unable to fathom its true nature, or whether it was good or evil.
“Genesis 6:5,” the door read: “And God saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and that every imagination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually.” One of the monks yanked the rope, and prisoner 232 was forced to keep moving, feeling that heavy gaze pinned to his back.
He stumbled as he walked; ten years of confinement had left him crippled. The brilliant sun temporarily blinded him as he stepped outside, but his eyes gradually adjusted to the glare. Then he saw the sky, pristine and cloudless. The landscape was a vast expanse of lush green grass; in the distance, the only visible structure was a massive cathedral. Such architecture belonged in a grand metropolis, yet there was no indication of any city nearby. On the contrary, the only sound in the air was the whispering wind. After his long captivity, it felt like pure serenity.
They advanced toward the cathedral, which seemed to grow monumental as they drew nearer. His guides had no intention of entering, as they veered off just before reaching the great doors. Carlos estimated the distance from the prison to the cathedral to be just enough to signal that one existed solely for the other. Awestruck by this idyllic, quiet sanctuary, his eyes searched for something more, but there was nothing else. They walked toward a knoll that broke the flat plain, crowned by a huge, leafy tree... the only tree in sight. He couldn’t guess its species; it resembled a fir, but its leaves were more rounded. In its shade rested an old man. He was clad in a white robe, sitting comfortably at a table; he looked just like someone’s grandfather resting in the courtyard on a hot afternoon. As they approached, Carlos saw the furniture was metallic and gilded—a chair and table far too exquisite to be left exposed to the elements. More than gilded, they appeared to be crafted from pure gold, and the excessive number of crosses in their design clearly betrayed the religious origin of their making.
The wind rustled the grass, and Carlos felt the gentle brush of the breeze beneath his canvas clothes. For a fraction of a second, as his eyes scanned the landscape once more, he thought he saw a nun in a black habit, her beautiful, pale face framed by a few golden strands escaping from under her wimple. Her expression was cold and solemn, but it must have been a trick of memory or a hallucination; when he tried to focus his gaze on her, the nun was gone.
Once close enough to discern his host’s face, Carlos noticed the old man was smiling at him. The elder raised his hand in greeting. The prisoner reflexively started to return the gesture, but the tight ropes binding his hands behind his back stopped him short.
Reaching the old man, the two monks bowed before the pontiff and forced Carlos to do the same. They kissed one of the rings the elder wore on his right hand. At a wordless gesture from the old man, they untied Carlos—an action the prisoner thanked inwardly, as the bindings had been so tight they had bruised his skin nearly to the point of bleeding. Another motion invited Carlos to sit. He obeyed.
He was a gentleman in white with weary eyes. His voice was clear and his serenity unshakeable; he began to speak and smile simultaneously, projecting a rare sense of trustworthiness seldom found in a stranger. The old man courteously asked Carlos if, during his time in isolation, he had ever lacked anything—referring to medicine, food, or clothing. Of all those things, Carlos had felt no need at all. He simply mentioned that perhaps another inmate did need something, as he heard him weeping every single day. The old man let out a soft chuckle and concluded:
“You are undoubtedly speaking of cell 218: Lamentations 2:18.”
Carlos instantly recalled the grim passage: “Their heart cried unto the Lord, O wall of the daughter of Zion, let tears run down like a river day and night: give thyself no rest; let not the apple of thine eye cease.”
The conversation then shifted to a graver tone, guided by the elder. His solemnity became evident as his voice dropped to a quieter but firm cadence. He explained that he had requested Carlos be brought before him for a matter of absolute necessity. He looked up, as if searching for the right words to deliver. Carlos followed his gaze up into the foliage of the tree above their heads and was startled to see it bore fruit—not abundantly, but it was there. They were green, with a visual texture identical to apples, but the size of watermelons and shaped like grapes. Nestled among the branches, the fruit, and especially the leaves, the stark white of a braided rope stood out, tied off in a hangman’s noose. The old man’s words flowed continuously, delivered with absolute tranquility. Carlos couldn’t imagine the elder bringing him out of prison just to hang him there; the rope simply didn’t fit—it belonged to a different painting altogether.
In his explanation, the old man introduced himself as the reigning Pope of the Catholic Church and explained that he led various orders of priests with special, specific mandates. He added that the times they were living in were exceedingly difficult: those in charge of “The Holy Prison” were facing a crisis due to an overwhelming workload, which was why they required Carlos as an emerging asset. The primary task consisted of dealing with people who, like Carlos, possessed “special tools.”
“We know well that your heart became soiled given the circumstances, but deep down, you wish to cleanse it... we know you are willing to do so. Your family would want that.”
The Pope stood up without breaking his stride. He took a few steps toward Carlos, who was barely processing what he was being told. The old man extended his hand, requesting a handshake with the gesture.
“A fellow countryman of yours is causing us trouble... It is becoming complicated to bring him in. How about you help me, and I help you? Do we have a deal?”
