ope Pius XIII stood in the doorway of David Hill’s office, cassock immaculate, eyes sharp with that calm authority that made even silence feel like a command.

“David,” he said, almost gently, “holiness does not keep banker’s hours.”

David glanced at the clock on his wall. “It’s the weekend, Holy Father.”

The Pope nodded. “Exactly. When the world rests, the conscience wakes.” He stepped inside, running a finger along a stack of unfinished drafts. “Your page—your words—are not ready yet. You will stay. You will work. And you will listen.”

David sighed, half-smiling despite himself. “You really think a page can change anything?”

Pius XIII met his eyes. “Every page is a confession. Every sentence chooses a side.” He turned to leave, then paused, a rare warmth breaking through his severity. “Mi casa es su casa.”

David laughed softly as the door closed. Alone again, he sat back down, opened his notebook, and began to write—aware now that the weekend had never truly belonged to him in the first place.