Chapter Text
The white light slowly receded, and Gänswein regained consciousness.
He found himself within a deep and silent valley. As far as his eyes could reach, fragrant grass stretched endlessly toward the horizon, where sky and earth met and folded into rolling mountains. Layers of heavy clouds hung low overhead, casting the entire sky in a muted, uniform gray. Through the seams between them, shards of sunlight spilled unevenly across the meadow. In the breeze brushing his face, the distant sound of cowbells drifted, slow and unhurried.
Still dazed, Gänswein pushed himself upright. Not far away, a modest two‑story house stood on a patch of level ground at the foot of the mountain. Its wooden exterior looked freshly painted, glowing with a bright reddish ochre. Beside it grew a flourishing olive tree, its branches half‑veiling the white window frames on the second floor. Black tiles lined the roof. A chimney rose quietly above it, the flue so clean it seemed as though no fire had ever burned inside.
On the gravel before the house, several cardboard boxes were stacked neatly. The top one was left open, and Gänswein could see it was packed full of books. Next to the boxes stood a black sedan, a Mercedes‑Benz W124. Its trunk and doors were open, yet the cabin was completely empty.
Almost without thinking, Gänswein walked closer, intending to take out a book and see whether the owner's name was written inside. It was only when he reached out his hand that he realized what he was wearing: a full archiepiscopal cassock, the Roman collar perfectly in place, a biretta set squarely on his head. His black leather shoes gleamed, spotless, untouched by dust or mud.
"Where am I? And why am I dressed like this, in the middle of an empty valley…"
As confusion tightened around him, a familiar voice drifted from nearby.
"Giorgio! Thank God, you're finally here."
Gänswein's head snapped up.Ratzinger stood before the little house, waving with one hand as he pulled its weathered door closed with the other. On his face was that gentle smile Gänswein knew better than anyone.
"Why are you here?!"
His legs reacted faster than his mind. Before the words had fully left his mouth, he was already running toward Ratzinger.
There were only a few dozen steps between them. Yet when Gänswein came within a single step, he stopped abruptly. Ratzinger was right there—so close he could see the narrow blue ring at the outer edge of his irises. And still, Gänswein's outstretched arms froze in midair.
He was afraid. Afraid that if he took even one more step, the man before him would dissolve like smoke.
Dissolving like smoke… He could not shake the feeling that he had seen this scene before. But where…?
While he stood frozen in hesitation, lost in the fear, Ratzinger moved first. He crossed the last bit of distance without the slightest hesitation and gathered Gänswein into his arms.
In that instant, the longing and expectation that had long since cracked and frozen in the cold winds of time were finally wrapped in a warmth that was real, unmistakably real. Through the thin layers of fabric, Gänswein could clearly feel the faint, steady heartbeat in Ratzinger's chest.
This man in front of him carried a familiar scent. It came from the incense used at Mass, from lemon‑scented shampoo, from those moth orchids, and from ink and the paper of Gospel books.
Gänswein wrapped his arms around Ratzinger with the familiar strength he knew Ratzinger preferred, fingers tightening instinctively in the fabric at his back. They held each other fully, laughing and crying all at once.
"I thought you wouldn't recognize me anymore…" Gänswein sobbed, barely able to stay upright. "I've aged so much these five years… my face… and…"
"How could I fail to recognize you?" Ratzinger loosened the embrace, his fingertips gently tracing Gänswein's brows and eyes as though turning the pages of a beloved book. "You have aged five years, and I have aged five years. The Earth and the universe have aged five years as well. So in my eyes, you are still exactly as you were."
Gänswein studied Ratzinger's face carefully. Just as he said, it looked exactly as it had when they first met.
"Well?" Ratzinger asked softly. "After five years apart, have you been well?"
Gänswein was ready to say "I'm fine," or "I managed," the way he had forced himself to so many times before. But here, in a valley where only the two of them existed, standing before the very person he had been aching for, there was no point in pretending anymore.
"I'm not well…" Gänswein finally broke down, crying openly. "I miss you so much… At first, I prayed to God, saying I couldn't bear seeing you only in dreams… And God answered by letting me dream nothing at all for five years… Only apparitions I could see but never touch… Five years! Just once would have been enough, I wanted so badly to have even one happy dream…"
"Now I am here…" Ratzinger raised his hand and slowly, gently wiped the tears from Gänswein's face, though his own cheeks were already wet. Then they interlaced their fingers, gazing into each other's tear‑filled eyes, foreheads resting together, quietly leaning into one another.
"…And the others?" Ratzinger asked softly when they finally drew back a little. "Sister Birgitta, and the sisters of the Memores Domini who cared for me. Are they well?"
"They're all well. Truly. And they miss you very much."
"And Doctor Polsca, Alfred… and Clemens. Where are they now? Are they doing well too?"
Gänswein fell silent. These were all names he knew intimately. People who had once revolved around Ratzinger like planets around a star. Yet aside from the sisters who had cared for Ratzinger in his final years, Gänswein had almost completely lost contact with the others. Where they were now, how they were living, he had no idea.
It was only natural for Ratzinger to ask after his former companions; he had always been gentle, steadfast in affection, never one to erase anyone lightly from his memory. And yet,Gänswein could not help feeling a quiet, unreasonable pang. Why now, of all moments? Why here, in this valley meant for only you and me? Why couldn't your heart hold only me?
He lowered his head, avoiding Ratzinger's gaze, and said nothing. He could easily have invented a few updates, offered a few harmless reassurances. That would have eased Ratzinger's mind. But he did not want to. He did not want to live in Ratzinger's memory as anyone's replacement.
"I see…" After a long silence, Ratzinger simply smiled and let the matter go. "I hope they are all well."
Though Ratzinger showed no trace of disappointment, a sudden guilt rose in Gänswein's chest. It lasted only a moment. Whatever frictions had existed in the past now seemed insignificant, and Ratzinger clearly hoped for reconciliation. But since the others seemed to have no intention of reconciling either, Gänswein felt strangely justified in his own unwillingness to let go.
"By the way, now that you're here, I'd like to ask you for a favor."
Ratzinger seemed intent on changing the subject. He gestured toward the cardboard boxes beside the car. "I need to load these books into the car."
Gänswein froze for a moment, then answered on instinct. "All right."
He began carrying the books, while Ratzinger took a map from the car and studied it with a deepening frown.
"Where are you planning to take these books?" Gänswein asked as he shifted things around in the trunk to make space.
"I'm going back to Bavaria," Ratzinger said. "I'll take the books with me."
"Back to Bavaria…"
"Yes." Ratzinger folded the map. There was a barely contained eagerness in his eyes, the unmistakable look of someone whose heart was already on the road home. "My work here is finished. Now I am going back to Bavaria."
"But didn't you say you had too many books to…"
Halfway through the sentence, Gänswein suddenly realized how many contradictions surrounded him.
He closed the trunk and straightened up, looking at Ratzinger again. Only then did he notice that Ratzinger was no longer wearing white, but the black cassock with red piping worn by cardinals.
It was not only the clothes. When he looked more closely, he realized that Ratzinger's face was exactly as it had been when they met in Rome more than 20 years ago, smoother, brighter, and carrying a vitality that had long since faded. By all logic, if five years had passed and everything remained the same, then Ratzinger should have looked as he had five-years ago.
Most importantly, returning to Bavaria was the plan Ratzinger had once made on the condition that he would retire as a cardinal, exactly as he had wished.
This isn't the real world. The thought made every hair on Gänswein's body stand on end. He remembered now. Hadn't he been climbing Fallenbacherspitze? Wasn't he supposed to be on the mountain?
Was this a final, beautiful dream before death? If so, he needed to wake up at once. His body might still be trapped in that snow cave, moments away from dying of hypothermia.
And yet…Wasn't this valley, with only the two of them in it, exactly the place he had dreamed of? Here, he no longer had to share Ratzinger with anyone. No Curia, no duties, no people who had a rightful claim on Ratzinger's time. Wasn't this the paradise they had once imagined together?
Then why would Ratzinger want to leave?
"Weren't… weren't you elected pope," Gänswein said cautiously, his voice growing quieter. "And in Rome you were already…"
"You mean to say that I was buried in Rome as pope, in the crypt beneath St. Peter's Basilica?"
Ratzinger's gaze was unfathomably deep. "That's right. But my heart has always belonged to my homeland, Bavaria. Fallen leaves will return to their roots. Now there is nothing left to stop me from going back."
The words exploded in Gänswein's mind with a sudden ringing. His scalp prickled and bitterness rose in his mouth. The hand resting on the edge of the trunk slowly curled into a fist.
"Giorgio? What is wrong?"
"Nothing. Please forgive my impertinence, but…"
Gänswein drew a deep breath and gathered all his courage to ask the question he could no longer avoid.
"Are you… a ghost? Or are you…"
He could not finish. In truth, he did not even know whether he hoped for a yes or a no.
Ratzinger did not seem offended or saddened. "A ghost, apparition, or a dream… it does not really matter. You may think of me however you like."
That kind of ambiguous answer did nothing to comfort Gänswein. He looked around, searching for something that might anchor him to reality, but quickly realized it was futile.
"…Where is this place?"
"Somewhere in the Alps," Ratzinger said, pointing toward the distant silhouettes of mountains. "Weren't you among them just before you came here?"
Gänswein followed the direction of his finger. It did not look like Fallenbacherspitze, yet he could not identify which mountain of the Alps it was either. He searched the valley again for anything familiar, but found nothing.Nearby, aside from the house and the olive tree, four yellow and white cows lay side by side, chewing lazily. For some reason, all of them were staring at Gänswein. The copper bells around their necks chimed softly with each slow movement of their jaws.
Gänswein looked away. He glanced at the black sedan, then at Ratzinger, who was eyeing the steering wheel with visible anticipation. The confusion in his heart only deepened.
"But… you do not have a driver's license, do you?"
"How does that saying go? " Ratzinger showed a rare hint of self-satisfaction. "Three days apart, and one must look anew. Five years have passed, I have made some progress."
The words struck Gänswein like a blow. Ratzinger had even learned to drive. At that moment, he was almost certain that he was either dreaming or had already arrived in heaven, because here, it seemed, every regret could be remedied.
He pinched himself discreetly. It hurt. Yet the world did not collapse.
"Then I must already be dead,"Gänswein thought, strangely calm. "Otherwise, why can't I wake up? Well… it no longer matters."
As he stood there lost in thought, Ratzinger unfolded the map again, tracing with his eyes a route Gänswein could not see.
"What are you looking at? The way home?"
"Yes," Ratzinger replied without hesitation. "I will drive northward from here, take the Brenner Autobahn across the Alps, pass Innsbruck, detour through Regensburg, and then return to Traunstein."
"Drive northward" meant they were still in Italy. And Ratzinger was clearly ready to leave.
But hadn't they agreed to stay together?
Hadn't he said that even if he could not return home, staying in the Eternal City with Gänswein would be just as good?
In the end, his heart still clung more tightly to his homeland and his family…
"I heard on the weather forecast that there is going to be heavy snow," Gänswein blurted out urgently. "The Brenner might be closed."
In truth, he had not checked the forecast at all. It was an excuse, clumsy beyond redemption.
Ratzinger looked surprised, then pressed his right index finger to his lips, thinking hard.
"Then… perhaps the mountain road?" he said. "It is not a highway. There should not be any checkpoints."
"The mountain road is rough. It will take a long time."
"That is all right," Ratzinger said with a smile, his voice light, as if a burden had finally been set down. "I am no longer in a hurry."
"But it is nothing but hairpin turns," Gänswein said in panic. "There have been accidents in rain and snow. Last winter, a delivery truck lost control at Devil's Elbow and went over the cliff. How are you supposed to cross the Alps in an ordinary sedan?"
"Then I will turn into a lark," Ratzinger said, his voice almost sing-song. "A lark can fly over mountains and seas and still find its way home."
As he spoke, he narrowed his eyes and lifted his gaze toward the northern horizon. Only then did Gänswein notice a snow-capped mountain there, its shape strikingly similar to the Zugspitze, standing like a wall between two worlds.
He remembered then. Ratzinger had once told him that more than seventy years ago, in Freising Cathedral, when he knelt before the altar to be ordained a priest, a lark had suddenly taken flight above the high altar, trilling a song of joy.
And now, that lark seemed ready to take flight once more.
Watching Ratzinger's profile as he gazed toward his homeland, Gänswein knew he could not hold him back with fear. So he made his final decision.
"Please let me go with you," Gänswein said quickly, afraid to give Ratzinger time to think and refuse. "If we have to take the mountain road, I can drive. I have driven mountain roads in rain and snow before. As long as I am with you, you will be safe."
As he spoke, he began fumbling through his pockets. Thankfully, his phone was still there. He lit up the screen and found, to his astonishment, that in this valley supposedly cut off from the world, the signal was full.
He had no time to marvel at it. The screen's glow was harsh in the dim valley, but he endured it, opening the map app and searching for routes.
"It is cold now. You will need the thickest cashmere sweater, the gray one you always wear in winter. And the flannel pajamas. The whole trip will take more than ten hours. We might have to stop somewhere overnight."
His words tumbled out in a breathless rush as he swiped the screen, terrified of missing any detail.
"And snacks. Lebkuchen… no, better bring some soft cake, it will not be so dry. And hot black tea with honey. That keeps you warm and replenishes sugar quickly."
He looked up at Ratzinger, his eyes bright with urgency.
"And if you want something to pass the time, I can find some records for you. Which composer would you like? Mozart will do, right? Or I can simply talk to you. I have so much I want to tell you."
He poured everything out in a single breath, like a gambler staking everything on one final throw. He was betting that Ratzinger would not be able to walk away from such careful, tender devotion.
But when he finally stopped and waited for an answer, he realized that Ratzinger had been standing there quietly the entire time, watching him. The corners of his mouth were gently lifted, yet his eyes were lowered, heavy with something unspoken.
"Thank you, Giorgio," Ratzinger said gently, with a firmness that allowed no appeal. "But this time, I must go alone."
"Why?!"
Gänswein almost dropped his phone. The word tore out of him, half a shout.
"Along the way, the police will stop cars to check passengers' tickets. You do not have one."
"A ticket?"
Gänswein stared at him in disbelief. It sounded like an absurd joke. If this were a highway toll, they would check the car, not the passenger. And when has there ever been police stopping cars on this road?
"What ticket are you talking about?" he demanded. "May I see yours?"
Ratzinger reached into the pocket of his cassock and drew out a ticket, placing it on his open palm for Gänswein to see. It was about half the size of a hand, made of a stiff, faintly luminous card. The background was the deep blue of a night sky. At the top were printed the words Single Passenger Ticket. In the center shone a guiding star, Stella Maris. Beneath it, in small silver Gothic letters, was the destination:
Destinazione: Heimat · Traunstein
(Destination: Homeland· Traunstein)
Gänswein reached for it, but before his fingers could touch the card, Ratzinger closed his hand and slipped it back into his pocket.
"I will buy one now," Gänswein said quickly, pulling out his phone and opening the booking site he always used. "Where did you get yours?"
"You cannot buy it," Ratzinger said, shaking his head lightly. "In truth, I do not know where it comes from either. It simply appeared in my pocket the moment I decided to go home."
"Then I will travel without a ticket!"
The words burst out of Gänswein before he could think. Rules and consequences no longer mattered. "I will hide in the trunk, or crawl under the back seat. If they catch me, I will say it was my fault. I will explain. I will pay the fine. There must be a way."
"No," Ratzinger said softly. He looked as though the thought of parting pained him, yet he did not yield. "You need to stay here. And tell me, Giorgio… what memories of Traunstein are yours alone? If you have none, you will not be able to reach it."
"I…"
Gänswein opened his mouth, then fell silent. Every memory he had of Traunstein came from Ratzinger. Apart from the man standing before him, the city was nothing more than a dot on a map.
"I only want to stay with you," he pleaded in a low, gentle voice. "Is that not allowed? If you are not here, what meaning is there in my staying? The Eternal City does not make me happy. Nor does that empty Mater Ecclesiae monastery. I was happy because of you…"
"I am sorry. I was not granted more years to stay by your side," Ratzinger said, his eyes filled with guilt. "You can go and look for other things that matter. Look for a newer, greater happiness."
But after more than twenty years with you, how could there be any greater happiness left for me in this world?
Gänswein bit the words back. They cut his throat like blades. Not being born in the same era, not being able to share more years together, none of that was Ratzinger's fault. To say it now would be nothing but a cruel, unreasonable demand.
So even after chasing him all the way here, must he still part with regret?
"Will you ever come back?"
"I do not think so. You crossed mountains to see me, so I came here without hesitation and waited until you appeared. But I am like a meteor entering the atmosphere. Once I depart, I cannot return."
"But… what if I miss you?"
"Perhaps you could look toward the far side of the mountain," Ratzinger said. "Do you see that cloud beyond the ridge? I will be in the place covered by its shadow."
"The mountain is too high!"
Gänswein almost sank to his knees. "And the clouds will block my sight. I won't be able to see that place at all."
Ratzinger smiled.
"Then let your eyes rest on the mountain itself. If one day, when you lift your gaze, you see the mountains steeped in that deep, quiet green, that will be me watching over you."
At Ratzinger's words, Gänswein looked toward the distant mountain that so resembled the Zugspitze. The summit lay half-veiled in mist, and a flock of birds broke through the clouds, gliding over the ridge.
A fine drizzle began to fall. Ratzinger looked up, as though he understood that the moment for him to leave had come. He said nothing more, turned, and opened the driver's door.
Gänswein lurched forward and caught his wrist.
His whole body was shaking. No words came. He only clung harder, pleading with those bloodshot eyes.
Don't go. Please, don't go. Or take me with you.
"Do you remember your own motto?" Ratzinger asked, looking back at him with a tenderness that almost hurt. "To bear witness to the truth. Your task is not yet finished. You must stay here, and witness it to the very end."
Gänswein said nothing. His jaw tightened, and he refused to release his grip.
Ratzinger let out a quiet sigh, then gestured for him to lower his head.
Gänswein obeyed.
Ratzinger leaned close and pressed a gentle kiss to his rain-soaked forehead.
A tremor ran through Gänswein. In that moment he understood: Ratzinger had made up his mind. Nothing he did could change it. This was their parting kiss.
He loosened his hand in a daze. The warmth at his fingertips vanished at once, as though it had never been there.
Ratzinger settled into the driver's seat and closed the door. Through the rearview mirror, Gänswein saw him turn slightly to fasten his seatbelt.
Gänswein hovered outside the window. He hesitated, wondering if he should slip into the back seat while Ratzinger was not looking, yet he could not bring himself to move. He wanted to stand there a little longer, to look at him once more. If Ratzinger was right, if he truly could not reach that place, then perhaps this was the last time he would ever see him.
"Goodbye," Ratzinger said at last.
His voice was muffled by the glass, but Gänswein heard it.
The engine came to life, breaking the stillness of the valley. The wheels turned. The black Mercedes-Benz W124 rolled slowly away, grinding over the gravel without leaving a trace.
As the car grew smaller in the distance, Gänswein suddenly realized that in that moment of hesitation, he had already lost his final chance.
The poem！The poem he had hoped to have carved on his tombstone. Ratzinger had not yet written it for him.
But the car was already far down the road.
At that moment, Gänswein's reason finally gave way. He clenched his teeth, let out a hoarse, broken cry, and ran after the car.
"Are you really leaving me like this?"
His legs turned heavy, as though filled with lead. The biretta hindered him. He tore it off and flung it into the air together with his zucchetto. The wind knifed into his lungs, sending pain through his ribs.
"Don't abandon me! You will miss me, you will!"
He stepped on the hem of his robe and stumbled, but he did not stop.
"Don't leave me! I was not good enough before, I disappointed you… I will change! I will change anything! I swear it!"
"I will not act on my own again! I will never hide anything from you!"
"I should not have lied about the snow. I am sorry. I will make peace with them. I will make peace with all of them."
Tears and rain streamed down his face. The car ahead grew smaller and smaller.
"Please… take me with you…"
The last cry scraped out of his throat, thin as a mosquito's hum, draining the last of his strength. His foot slipped, and he fell hard into the cold, wet mud.
As he hit the ground, a sharp red light flared at the edge of his vision.
The brake lights of the W124.
A faint, almost delirious hope flickered in his chest. He struggled to lift his mud-soaked upper body and fixed his gaze on that trembling red glow, blurred by tears.
There was the sound of brakes.
He heard it.
He truly heard it.
In that instant, the world seemed to fall still. Rain, wind, the low murmur of the engine, all froze at once. The black silhouette of the car stood motionless ahead, its red tail lights blooming softly in the mist. Gänswein hardly dared to blink. He held his breath, terrified of missing the moment Ratzinger would open the door.
But then the red began to fade.
Like blood washed thin by water, dissolving into the gray-white fog. The outline of the car blurred. Valley, road, sky, all lost their boundaries and slowly collapsed outward.
He tried to rise, only to find nothing beneath him.
A moment later, a cold that pierced to the bone surged up his spine.
"…Wake up, Mr. Gänswein. Wake up!"
"…Will rubbing with snow help…?"
"His feet are frostbitten too. Change him into dry shoes and socks first…"
"Wake up! You can't keep sleeping now!"
Gänswein drew in a sharp breath. His right ribs felt as though an icy knife had split them open. Every pore of his body tightened against the cold. A howling wind filled his ears, mingling with his own harsh, ragged breathing. His cheeks were wet and freezing, not with the valley's rain but with snow mixed with ice crystals, pressed and rubbed against his skin again and again. He tried instinctively to turn away, yet he did not even have the strength to lift his head.
Someone was rubbing his face and limbs with snow. Emergency treatment for frostbite.
He forced his eyes open, only a narrow slit.
Blinding sunlight flooded in at once, making him squint. His vision swam with shifting white shapes. After a long moment, outlines slowly emerged. He realized he was lying on his back on a flat patch of ground not far from a snow cave. They had laid ropes and backpacks beneath him as makeshift padding. Several figures surrounded him. Some were crouching, some half-kneeling, and one stood a little farther away, lifting their head from time to time to scan the sky.
A faint groan escaped him.
"He's awake."
He heard someone shout above him, followed by the relieved laughter of three others. He blinked again, and a familiar face came into focus. It was the attending physician he had met at the Reutte hospital.
"Why are you here…?" Gänswein's voice was so hoarse it hardly sounded like his own.
The doctor frowned as she adjusted the oxygen flow, sounding more exasperated than relieved. "I would like to know that myself. One climber ends up critically injured and in the ICU, and now you run off to a place like this. The terrain here is too steep, the air currents are unstable. Even helicopters cannot land safely. What is it about this mountain that keeps drawing you people in?"
Crouching beside her was the mountain guide Gänswein had consulted earlier. He continued the explanation. "The afternoon after you set out, two novices from a nearby monastery came to me. They said they had spotted you heading into the mountains alone using a drone. We followed the route you asked about before."
"It was Cardinal Schönborn who was worried," a young voice added. "He told us to try searching you."
"And Bishop Glettler as well," another person said. "When we saw you were in danger, we contacted the base by satellite phone. The rescue helicopter is waiting in a more open area. Once you recover a bit, we will help you down."
As they spoke, their hands never stopped moving, continuing to rub snow over Gänswein's arms.
A complicated feeling rose within him. In the dream, Ratzinger had asked after old friends, and he had known nothing. Yet here, in reality, those very people were still watching over him in this way.
"The climber from before…" he asked with difficulty. "How is he?"
The doctor sighed. "He has not woken up yet. You should be more concerned about yourself. You have broken at least three ribs, and you have a mild concussion."
Not awake yet.
Which meant the miracle had not yet come true. His duty was not yet fulfilled. He still had to remain, for now, in this world.
"What time is it…?" he asked, struggling for breath. "How long was I unconscious?"
The doctor checked her watch. It was 2:40 p.m. He had been out for less than two hours.
A vast, choking grief surged up in him. Less than two hours. Why had they found him so quickly. The sun had not even set. Everything in the dream had been far too rushed. It had not been anywhere near a farewell tender enough to suffice. He had not finished speaking his regret, nor his longing.
It was not enough.
Not nearly enough.
He tore off the oxygen tube and tried to sit up. His body convulsed at once. Pain burst through his ribs, his vision dimmed, his limbs turned icy and numb, refusing to obey him. Only the stubborn fire in his eyes remained.
He had to reach the summit.Ratzinger might not have gone far yet. If he stood a little higher, perhaps he could still see the car's tail lights.
"…I am fine. Let go of me."
"Are you out of mind?" the doctor motioned for the others to hold him down. "If you keep this up, you might really die."
But Gänswein lifted his head. His gaze passed over them and fixed on the mountain peak gilded by sunlight.
"Then the miracle will happen once more."
The four of them froze, exchanging stunned looks. Gänswein pushed past them and staggered forward, step by step, toward the summit.
—End—