My name is Juliana Montiveri and for 23 years I did the same job creating floral arrangements to accompany people on their final journey.

23 years in which I saw thousands of coffins, thousands of silent faces, thousands of families devastated by grief.

23 years in which slowly I built armor around my heart. I had to. You can’t work every day with death without protecting yourself.

You can’t look into the eyes of mothers who have lost their children, fathers burying their daughters, without learning to detach emotionally.

And so, year after year, I became what everyone called the professional, precise, efficient, always punctual.

My arrangements were perfect, my liies impeccable, my roses always fresh. But inside me, something had hardened.

I had stopped believing in God many years before. Or perhaps I had never truly believed.

I grew up in a nominally Catholic family. The typical Milan family of the 60s where you went to mass at Christmas and Easter, where children were baptized out of tradition, but where no one ever really talked about faith.

My mother hung a crucifix in the kitchen. My father cursed when Juventus lost. It was that Italianstyle religion, more cultural than spiritual, and I had accepted it that way without asking too many questions.

Then came my work, and my work showed me a brutal truth. Death comes for everyone, good and bad, believers and non-believers.

It comes for children and the elderly, for saints and sinners. There’s no justice, no divine plan.

There’s only biology, chemistry, chance. An artery gets blocked, a cell goes crazy. A virus attacks, and then it all ends.

The body becomes cold, rigid, and I arrive with my white roses to make it a bit more presentable.

That night of October 13th, 2006, I was in my workshop on Via Tortona. It was past 11 and I was finishing an arrangement.

A 72year-old man dead from a heart attack. Red and white roses. I worked with the automatic gestures of someone who has done the same thing thousands of times, cutting the stems, removing the leaves, arranging each flower with precision.

The radio played light music. It was my routine. Then the phone rang. Unknown number.

Hello, Monte Verde Florist. I answered. Good evening, Mrs. Monte Verde. Excuse me for the hour.

I’m Father Gian Mario Pagani from the parish of Santa Maria Sigreta. A priest. Priests always called for the most difficult funerals.

Tell me, Father, tomorrow we have a particular funeral, a 15-year-old boy. His name was Carlo Audis.

He died Wednesday morning from fulminant leukemia. 15 years old, even after 23 years, funerals of young people always affected me.

I understand. What do you need? The family would like white liies and white roses.

Nothing elaborate, only purity, simplicity. All right. What time? The wake begins tomorrow at 2:00 in the afternoon.

We’d like the flowers ready beforehand. I looked at the clock. 11:15, less than 15 hours.

I can do it. I’ll come early tomorrow morning. Thank you so much. If you need anything, call me.

I hung up. 15 years old, my nephew’s age. I shook my head. It was just another job.

I had to maintain detachment always. That night I slept little. I woke up at 5 even though the alarm was set for 6.

I took a shower, drank black coffee, and went down to the workshop. I had to choose the most beautiful flowers.

For young people, I always put in particular effort, even if I didn’t want to admit it.

I opened the refrigerated cell. The damp smell hit me. I chose two dozen white Casablanca liies, the purest ones.

Then three dozen white avalanche roses, perfect. I added silver eucalyptus for structure and baby’s breath for lightness.

While I worked, I paid almost obsessive attention. I discarded roses that would normally be acceptable.

Why? It was just another funeral. But something inside me couldn’t treat it as such.

At 8 in the morning, I loaded everything into my van. The arrangements were beautiful, even by my strict standards.

I had created a main arrangement for the catapalk and two smaller side arrangements, all white, pure, simple as the priest had requested.

As I drove toward Santa Maria Cigreta, crossing the still semi- deserted streets of Milan that Saturday morning, I couldn’t get that name out of my head.

Carlo Acutis. I didn’t know him. I had never heard of him. He was just a 15-year-old boy, dead too soon, like so many others I had seen pass.

Yet, there was something different. Maybe it was the way the priest had spoken. Or maybe it was just my imagination.

I arrived at the church around 8:30. Santa Maria Segreta is a small church hidden in the center of Milan on Via Santa Maria Segreta right behind Via Torino.

I had never been there despite having lived in Milan all my life. It’s one of those churches that go unnoticed hidden among buildings far from tourist routes.

I parked the van in front of the side entrance and began to unload the arrangements.

Father Gian Mario came to meet me immediately. He was a man in his 50s with round glasses and a kind smile.

Mrs. Monte Verde, thank you for coming so early. It’s my job, father. Let me help you.

Don’t worry, I’m used to it. But he insisted, and together we brought the floral arrangements inside.

The church was silent, immersed in the morning twilight. The lights were off, and only a few candles burned before the altar.

The characteristic smell of old churches welcomed me. Wax, old incense, ancient wood, dampness. The boy will arrive in about an hour.

Father Jian Mario told me the family is making final preparations at the hospital. You have all the time to set up.

Where do you want me to put the arrangements? We’ll put the coffin in front of the main altar.

The main arrangements can go on the sides of the catapalk and the largest one right behind on top of the catapalk itself.

I nodded and began to work. I assembled the catapalk with Father Gian Mario’s help then arranged my compositions.

While I did this, the priest kept talking. He was an extraordinary boy. You know, he was only 15 years old, but he had such deep faith.

So authentic, the faith of a saint. I smiled politely without responding. Priests always say that at funerals.

All the dead become saints when they die. It’s part of the funeral liturgy. He spent hours in Eucharistic adoration.

Father Gian Mario continued, “Entire hours motionless, kneeling before the blessed sacrament at 15 years old.

His classmates were outside playing soccer and he was here in prayer.” I continued arranging the liies without commenting.

And then there was his love for our lady. He prayed to her always. He recited the rosary every day, even when he was already sick.

Even when the pain was unbearable, I took a white rose and arranged it among the liies.

He also created a website, you know, about eukaristic miracles. He cataloged hundreds of eucharistic miracles from around the world with photographs, documents, testimonies, incredible work.

At 15 years old. A website about miracles. I held back a cynical smile. Today’s young people create websites about video games, about music, about soccer, and this boy had created a website about miracles.

Either he was extraordinarily devout or he was different. And you should know how he died,” the priest continued, his voice cracking slightly.

With such serenity, incredible peace, even when the doctors told him there was nothing more to be done, he smiled.

He said, “I offer all the suffering I will have to endure for the Lord, for the Pope, and for the church.”

I stopped arranging the flowers for a moment. He said this at 15 years old.

Yes. And he asked for the anointing of the sick. He received the eukarist for the last time on Tuesday, aware that it would be the last time.

And then Wednesday morning at 6:45, he passed away as if he had simply fallen asleep.

There was something in Father Gian Mario’s voice that struck me. It wasn’t the standard funeral rhetoric.

There was real emotion, real wonder. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, using the phrase I repeated automatically at every funeral.

“It’s not a loss,” he replied, surprisingly me. “It’s a gift. We had the privilege of knowing a saint, and now he is where he always wanted to be before the eukarist for eternity.”

I finished arranging the compositions in silence. They were perfect. The liies emanated their characteristic fragrance, sweet and intense.

The white roses seemed carved in marble, so pure and perfect. The silver eucalyptus gave the touch of sober elegance.

It was one of my best works. It’s beautiful, said Father Jian Mario, admiring the arrangements.

Thank you. Carla would have appreciated it. Good. Then I’m done. I can go whenever you want.

If you’d like to stay for the wake. No, thank you, father. I have other commitments.

I was lying. I had no commitments. But I didn’t want to stay. I didn’t want to participate in another funeral.

I had seen too many. I was about to leave when the church doors opened.

A woman in her 40s entered, elegant, her face marked by pain but composed. Behind her, other relatives.

“The family has arrived,” Father Janario whispered. “Mrs. Antonia, Carlo’s mother.” The woman approached the altar and saw the floral arrangements.

She stopped, and I saw her bring a hand to her mouth. For a moment, I thought I had done something wrong.

Then I heard her murmur. How wonderful. Carlo would have loved these flowers. Father Gian Mario approached her and they spoke in low voices.

I gathered my tools, preparing to leave. I wanted to avoid meeting the mother. Mothers who lose their children were the hardest to face.

But Mrs. Antonia turned toward me. You’re the florist. Yes, ma’am. Juliana Monte. They’re beautiful.

Thank you from my heart. I nodded silently. White was his favorite color. She continued, her voice broken by emotion.

He said that white represents the purity of the Eucharist, the purity of Mary. I didn’t know what to answer.

I’m very sorry for your loss, I murmured. She looked into my eyes and what I saw shook me.

There wasn’t only pain. There was also something else. Peace, hope. It’s not a loss, she said, repeating the priest’s words.

Carlo is finally home. He’s with Jesus, whom he always loved more than anything. I wanted to leave.

I wanted to escape from that church, from that mother too serene, from that priest who spoke of saints.

But right at that moment, the doors opened again, and four men entered carrying a white coffin.

Carlo Autis’ body. The procession slowly approached the altar. The mother followed the coffin with a steady step, quietly reciting what seemed to be a rosary.

Other relatives followed her, some crying, others in silence. I remained in the corner with my tool bag in hand, unable to move.

I don’t know why I didn’t leave at that moment. I should have. My work was done.

But something held me back. The men placed the white coffin on the catifal right between my floral arrangements.

It was a simple coffin, white, without elaborate ornaments, clean, essential, like the flowers I had prepared.

Father John Mario approached the coffin and recited a brief prayer. Then he turned to the family.

We would like to open the coffin for a final goodbye before people start arriving for the wake.

The mother nodded. The men gently opened the lid. And I, who had remained in the corner, unable to see inside, felt a deep silence descend upon the church.

It wasn’t the normal silence of a funeral. It was something else, a silence, alive, charged, full of presence.

The mother approached the coffin and looked at her son’s face. She didn’t cry. She simply placed a hand on the edge of the coffin and whispered, “Hello, my love.”

Now you’re before him. Then she stepped aside and other relatives approached. Each one looked inside the coffin and seemed surprised, amazed.

There wasn’t only pain on their faces. There was wonder. Mrs. Monte Verde, said Father Gian Mario, turning toward me.

Before you leave, would you like to take a look at your work? See how the arrangements look next to the coffin.

It was a kind invitation, but I hesitated. I don’t want to disturb the family.

You’re not disturbing at all, said the mother, turning. On the contrary, come see how beautiful your flowers are next to my son.

I couldn’t refuse without seeming rude. Slowly, with my heart beating hard for no apparent reason, I approached the catapult.

First, I looked at my arrangements. They were perfect, as I knew they would be.

The lily stood majestic. The roses shone in the soft candle light. Then, almost reluctantly, I lowered my gaze toward the inside of the coffin, and what I saw took my breath away.

The boy lay composed with his hands folded on his chest. He wore a blue sweatshirt with a writing I couldn’t read.

His brown hair was neatly combed. But that wasn’t what struck me. It was his face.

His face was, how to say it. After 23 years in this profession, I had seen thousands of dead people.

I know well the appearance of death, the waxy skin, the bluish lips, the cadaavverous palar, the rigidity of the jaw.

I know the mask that death places on faces, that unnatural immobility that cannot be confused with sleep.

But this boy, my God, this boy didn’t look dead. He looked asleep. No, not just asleep.

He looked at peace. A piece so deep, so complete that it was almost palpable.

His skin wasn’t waxy. It was It was as if it still had color. His lips weren’t bluish.

They were natural. And on his face there was there was a smile. Imperceptible, subtle, but it was there.

A hint of a smile, as if he were dreaming something beautiful. I leaned against the edge of the catapult because I felt my legs give way.

This wasn’t possible. He had been dead for almost 48 hours. Bodies don’t look like that after 48 hours.

Not without massive than work. And even with that, there’s always that artificial quality, that feeling of wax of museum.

But this this was different. It’s incredible, isn’t it? The mother whispered beside me. The doctors can’t explain it.

They say it’s unusual. Unusual. The most underrated word of the year. This wasn’t unusual.

This was impossible. He looks like he’s sleeping, I murmured, unable to look away. Yes, that’s what everyone said.

Even the nurses at the hospital, even the medical examiner, when they prepared him for transport, they kept saying he looked alive.

I kept staring at that face. I couldn’t stop. 20 years of rationalism. 20 years of materialism.

20 years of telling myself that death is just biology. All of this was crumbling before that serene face.

I must I must adjust the flowers better. I stammered, looking for an excuse to stay close to the coffin.

Father Gian Mario smiled. Go ahead, Mrs. Monteiver. Take all the time you need. I moved as if in a trance toward the floral arrangements.

My hands were trembling slightly as I touched the liies. They didn’t need any adjustment.

They were perfect. But I had to do something. I had to have a reason to stay there close to that coffin, close to that face that defied everything I had believed for 43 years.

I took a lily from the left arrangement. It was one of the most beautiful buds just opened with immaculate white petals and perfectly visible golden stammans.

It weighed in my hand with that fleshy consistency typical of fresh liies, the petals so turgid they seemed almost like porcelain.

I lifted it delicately with the intention of repositioning it for a better effect when I felt something change in the air.

It was subtle at first, almost imperceptible, like when in a room someone opens a window and suddenly you feel a draft that wasn’t there before, even if you don’t see any movement.

And as I held that lily between my fingers, the first thing happened, the fragrance.

Suddenly, the fragrance of the liies became different. Completely, unmistakably different. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to analyze it with my professional experience.

After 23 years working with flowers, I knew every old factory nuance. I could distinguish a David Austin rose from a Juliet rose.

I could recognize an oriental lily from an Asiatic lily just by smell. I knew when a flower had been cut two hours ago or two days ago just by smelling it.

But this this was completely outside my experience. The fragrance was still that of lilies.

Yes, there was that characteristic sweet note, that almost spicy touch, that aromatic density that makes Lily so loved and sometimes so overwhelming in closed spaces.

But above, around through this familiar fragrance, there was something else. It was as if someone had taken the essence of liies and had purified it, elevated it, transformed it into something that was no longer just a floral fragrance, but something higher, purer, almost heavenly.

It wasn’t more intense in the quantitative sense. It wasn’t giving me a headache as lily sometimes did in a closed room.

It was intense in the qualitative sense. It was as if each molecule of fragrance carried not only olfactory information, but also presence, meaning transcendent beauty.

I reopened my eyes and looked at the lily I was holding, almost expecting to see it transformed, but it was identical to how I had picked it up.

Pure white, golden stammans, perfect petals. Yet the fragrance it emanated was impossible. I brought the flower closer to my face, inhaling deeply.

Yes, it was the lily itself. It wasn’t the church in sense that had a completely different aroma, more reinous, heavier.

It wasn’t any artificial perfume that someone could have sprayed. It was the lily itself, but it was as if the lily had become more itself.

As if it had become the platonic idea of a lily. The perfect lily that exists in some dimension where all things are more real, more true, more beautiful.

Do you smell it, too? A voice whispered beside me. I turned sharply. It was a woman in her 60s whom I hadn’t noticed approaching.

She had a sweet face, red eyes from crying, but also a particular light in her eyes.

A relative of Carlos, probably an aunt, perhaps. What? I asked, even though I knew exactly what she was talking about, I wanted to hear her say it.

I wanted to confirm that I wasn’t going crazy, that I wasn’t the only one perceiving that marvelous strangeness in the air.

The fragrance, she said, indicating the flowers with a gesture of her hand. It’s It’s different, right?

I’m not crazy. No, I replied quietly, my voice. You’re not crazy. I smell it, too.

Since they brought Carlo here, the flowers have had this strange fragrance, she continued, approaching the arrangements and smelling delicately.

Beautiful, but strange. My husband says it’s just suggestion that I’m too emotional, but I smell it.

I smell it clearly. Me, too, I repeated. And then I added with a sincerity that surprised me.

And I’m a professional florist with 23 years of experience. It’s not suggestion. There’s something objectively different about this fragrance.

The woman looked at me with eyes full of tears. I knew it. I knew it wasn’t just in my head.

God is doing something here, right? God is speaking to us through these flowers. Before that moment, I would have mocked those words.

I would have thought, “This poor woman is in mourning. She’s emotional. She’s clinging to illusions to make sense of the senseless death of her nephew.

But now, with that lily still in hand, with that impossible fragrance filling my lungs, I couldn’t mock anything, I could only nod slowly and say, “Maybe so.

Maybe God is really speaking to us.” The woman smiled through tears, then moved away toward other relatives who were entering, and I remained there with that lily in hand, trying to make sense of what was happening.

I tried to rationalize. Maybe it was an unusual chemical phenomenon. Maybe the particular temperature of the church combined with the humidity and residual incense was altering all factory perception.

Maybe I was just tired, emotionally vulnerable, influenced by the atmosphere charged with pain and hope.

But even as I formulated these rational explanations in my mind, a deeper part of me knew they were all lies, I knew I was witnessing something that went beyond chemistry, beyond physics, beyond biology.

I was witnessing something that my materialist training had never predicted was possible. I looked at my liies.

I knew them. I had chosen them myself that morning at 5:30 when I went down to my workshop, still half asleep.

I had taken them from the refrigerated cell. I had inspected them one by one under the neon light, discarding those that showed even the slightest sign of imperfection.

I had cut them personally with my sharp scissors, making the perfect oblique incision that allows maximum water absorption.

I had put them in water enriched with the professional preservatives I always use. A mixture of sugar, citric acid, and bioide that slows cellular decomposition.

I knew their fragrance. I knew it intimately deeply after thousands of floral arrangements. It was the classic fragrance of Casablanca liies.

Sweet, floral, slightly spicy with that almost vanilla note that makes them so popular for weddings and funerals.

A dense, almost creamy fragrance that fills a room, but which after a while can become overwhelming.

An absolutely recognizable, absolutely normal fragrance. But this this was something different. It was as if someone had taken that familiar fragrance and had transfigured it.

Yes, that was the right word. Transfigured. As if the earthly fragrance of liies had been elevated, purified, transformed into something that maintained its essence, but transcended it at the same time.

I tried to describe it to myself mentally using the technical vocabulary I had learned over the years.

There was still the sweet floral top note. There was still the denser, almost creamy heart note.

There was still the slightly spicy base note. But through all this, interwoven in every old factory layer, there was something else.

Something that had no name. Something that seemed to carry not only sensory information but also, how to say it, peace, purity, presence.

It was as if by smelling those flowers, I wasn’t just perceiving aromatic molecules, but was entering into contact with something vaster, deeper, with a dimension that normally remains hidden from our limited senses.

I shook my head, trying to free myself from these thoughts. I was letting myself be influenced.

They were just flowers. My imagination was playing tricks on me, influenced by the emotionally charged atmosphere of the church, by the priest’s words about this saintly boy, by the palpable pain of the mother.

I had to maintain control. I was a professional. I was there to do my job, nothing else.

I repositioned the lily I was holding and moved to the roses. Here too, I thought I saw something strange.

Actually, I didn’t think I saw something objectively, scientifically impossible. The roses I had brought that morning were fresh.

Certainly, they were very high quality avalanche roses imported from Ecuador, where they cultivate them at high altitude, obtaining larger and more lasting flowers.

I had personally chosen them from my supplier 2 days before, selecting only those with perfectly formed buds, outer petals without stains, straight and vigorous stems.

I had kept them in my refrigerated cell at 4° C, the ideal environment to slow cellular metabolism and preserve freshness.

But they had been cut. This was a fact. They had been cut from the mother plant at least 3 days before.

One day in Ecuador, one day for air transport, one day in my supplier’s warehouse before I bought them, and then they had been in my workshop for another two days before I used them for this funeral.

So in total, they were flowers that had been separated from their roots for 5 days.

5 days during which, despite all the preservatives and all the preservation techniques, the inevitable process of scessence was underway.

I knew this for scientific certainty. I had studied it when I started this profession decades before.

A cut rose begins to die from the very moment it is separated from the plant.

Cells begin to degrade. Tissues begin to lose turgore. The outer petals exposed to air begin to dehydrate, even if imperceptibly.

It’s a slow but inexraable process governed by the laws of physics and biology. No technique, no preservative can stop it completely.

It can only slow it down. And therefore, after 5 days, even the best roses, and mine were the best, show signs, tiny signs, almost invisible to the untrained eye, but unmistakable for a professional like me.

The outer petals lose a fraction of their turgidity. The edge of the petals may show a very slight, almost imperceptible darkening.

The texture to the touch changes subtly. Instead of being crisp and full of life, the petals become slightly softer, more yielding.

The fragrance fades. The color loses some of its brilliance. These are changes that the average customer would never notice, but I would.

I always noticed them. They were part of my constant professional evaluation. But these roses, dear God, these roses seemed just cut.

They didn’t seem in the sense of superficial appearance. They were objectively incomprehensibly fresh. I gently touched a petal of the rose closest to me.

It was fresh, almost cold, full of life. There wasn’t that slight yielding I would have expected.

It was turgid, crisp, as if I had just cut it from the rose bush 5 minutes ago.

Not 5 days ago. I examined the edge of the petal. Pure white, no darkening, no sign of oxidation, no trace of scinessence.

I brought my nose close to the rose and smelled. The fragrance was full, rich, intense, not faded.

And here too, as with the liies, there was that strange quality, that additional dimension that I couldn’t define, but that was undeniably present.

I straightened up, looking around. No one else seemed to notice anything strange. Relatives continued to enter, to approach the coffin, to pray.

Father Gian Mario was talking with Carlo’s mother. Everything seemed normal, but I with my hands that had touched thousands of roses in 23 years of profession knew that what I was seeing and touching wasn’t normal.

It was impossible, completely, scientifically, biologically impossible. Roses don’t work like that. Plant tissues don’t behave like that.

Biology doesn’t make exceptions for spiritual atmosphere or for the presence of a holy body.

Yet there before my eyes, before my expert hands, biology was doing exactly this. An exception.

An exception that defied everything I knew, everything I had believed. I tried to think of rational explanations.

Maybe there was a cold air current in the church that was preserving the flowers better than expected.

I looked around. No, there were no open windows. No air currents. The temperature in the church was mild, probably around 18°, not cold enough to make a difference.

Maybe I had used particularly effective preservatives this time. But no, they were the same preservatives I always used, the same formulation I had used for years.

Maybe the roses were of exceptional quality. But even roses of exceptional quality follow the laws of biology.

Even the best roses from Ecuador after 5 days show some sign of aging. There was no explanation, no rational scientific material explanation.

And as this awareness settled in my mind like falling snow, I felt something shift inside me.

A small crack in the wall I had built around my heart. A small opening in the armor of my skepticism.

Because if the laws of biology could be suspended here in this church near this dead boy who looked alive, then then what else was possible?

What other laws could be suspended? What other impossibilities could become reality. I turned toward Father Gian Mario, who had momentarily moved away from the others.

I wanted to call him to ask him if he too saw what I saw.

If he too thought the flowers were strangely, miraculously fresh, but I held back. What would I say?

Father, my roses aren’t decomposing at the normal rate. I think we’re witnessing a local suspension of biological laws.

I would seem crazy or too emotional or influenced. And maybe I was. Maybe I was only seeing what I wanted to see, what the atmosphere was suggesting I see.

Maybe my roses were normal and I was simply letting myself be carried away by the emotion of the moment.

But my hands which had touched tens of thousands of flowers were telling me something else.

They were telling me that here in this place near this boy something was happening that I couldn’t explain.

Something I might never be able to explain. I decided to focus on my work.

I took the silver eucalyptus and began to reposition some sprigs to better balance the arrangement.

And it was then that the second thing happened. As I moved the eucalyptus, my hand accidentally brushed the edge of the white coffin.

It was only a fleeting touch, my fingers grazing the lacquered wood for a fraction of a second, but in that moment, I felt something.

A sensation, not physical, or perhaps, yes, but of a type I had never experienced before.

It was like like a vibration. No, not a vibration. It was more subtle. It was as if the wood of the coffin were warm.

Not warm in temperature. Warm with presence, with life, with energy. I pulled my hand back as if I had been burned.

My heart was beating hard. I looked around. No one seemed to have noticed my reaction.

The mother was talking with Father Gian Mario. Other relatives continued to approach the coffin, looked at Carlo’s face, whispered prayers, moved away with expressions of peace and wonder.

Was I perhaps the only one feeling these things? Or was it just my imagination overloaded by the emotion of the environment, by the pain of the relatives, by the priest’s words about this saintly boy?

I breathed deeply trying to calm myself. I had to maintain control. I was a professional.

I was there to do my job. Nothing else. But as I tried to focus again on the floral arrangements, the third thing happened.

And this time there was no possibility of doubt. There was no way to rationalize it.

I was arranging the last white rose in the main arrangement, the largest one that was behind the coffin.

To do this, I had to lean slightly over the catiful, over the open coffin.

And as I leaned, with the rose in hand, I looked down again toward Carlo’s face.

It was an automatic, involuntary gesture. My eyes were simply drawn toward that extraordinarily serene face.

And at that moment, I swear on everything I hold dear. I saw the liies in my arrangement light up.

It wasn’t a reflection. It wasn’t the candle light. It wasn’t the sunlight filtering through the stained glass windows.

It was a light coming from the flowers themselves. A soft golden, very delicate light, as if each white petal of the liies had become translucent and was emanating its own luminescence.

It was so subtle that if I had looked directly at the liies, perhaps I wouldn’t have noticed it.

But in my peripheral vision, while looking at Carlo’s face, I saw it clearly. The liies were glowing.

I dropped the rose I had in my hand. It fell on the edge of the catapulk and rolled to the floor, but I didn’t bend down to pick it up.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I stared at the liies, waiting for the light to disappear, for my vision to normalize.

But the light continued, delicate, constant, impossible. Ma’am, are you all right? Father Jan Mario’s voice reached me as from far away.

I turned toward him. I wanted to ask him, “Do you see it? Do you see the light in the flowers?”

But when I opened my mouth, no sound came out. “Mrs. Montverie, you’re pale. Do you want to sit down for a moment?”

He managed to say. I shook my head. “I I just need air. I need air.”

I moved away from the catifal with uncertain steps. I crossed the nave of the church heading toward the exit.

But before reaching the door, I stopped. Something stopped me. I don’t know what. An invisible force, a silent voice, a magnetic attraction.

I turned back. From that distance, about 20 m from the coffin, I could see the complete scene.

The white cataphalk, my floral arrangements, the open coffin. And inside the coffin, that 15-year-old boy who seemed to be sleeping with a smile on his lips and the flowers.

My god. The flowers continued to emanate that golden soft impossible light. I wasn’t crazy.

I was seeing it. I was seeing it clearly. It was real. Either I was really going crazy or something was happening that defied all logic, all science, everything I had believed for 43 years of my life.

I began to walk again toward the catapult. It wasn’t a rational decision. My feet moved on their own, as if attracted by an invisible force.

As I approached, the fragrance became increasingly intense. It was no longer just the fragrance of liies and roses.

It was something richer, more complex. It was as if the air itself around the coffin had become dense with presence, dense with holiness.

The word came to my mind suddenly, and I tried to push it away. Holiness.

I didn’t believe in holiness. I didn’t believe in anything. But that word kept resonating in my mind.

Holiness. I found myself again next to the coffin. This time I was alone. The relatives had momentarily moved away, perhaps to give space to others who were arriving.

Father Gian Mario was in the apps preparing something for the wake. It was just me and that dead boy who looked alive.

Just me and that impossible light in my flowers. I looked at his face again.

And this time, as I looked at it, something inside me broke. All the barriers I had built in 23 years of working with death.

All the armor I had erected around my heart, all my rationality, my skepticism, my materialism, everything shattered like glass.

Because looking at that face, I knew. I knew with a certainty that went beyond reason.

That this boy had seen something. That this boy knew something. That this boy had gone somewhere.

That I, with all my experience of death, had never believed existed. I had seen death thousands of times.

I had seen peaceful faces. Certainly. I had seen serene faces. But never, never, never had I seen a face like this.

A face that showed not simply absence of suffering, but presence of joy. A face that showed not simply the end of life, but the beginning of something else.

Tears began to flow down my face. They weren’t tears of sadness. I wasn’t crying for this dead boy.

I was crying for myself. For all the wasted years, for all the times I had looked at death and had seen only the end.

For all the times I had decorated coffins and had thought. Here it all ends here.

Dust to dust. For all the times I had treated the dead as objects, as work projects, as logistical problems to solve.

I was crying because suddenly, painfully, wonderfully, I understood that I had been wrong about everything.

I placed both hands on the edge of the coffin. This time, I distinctly felt that warmth, that presence, that impossible energy.

It wasn’t imagination. It was real, more real than anything I had ever touched. “Forgive me,” I whispered.

I don’t know to whom I was speaking. To the dead boy, to God, to myself.

Forgive me for not believing. Forgive me for seeing only death and never life. Forgive me for closing my heart.

And as I uttered those words, the last thing happened. The thing I have never told anyone until today.

The thing that changed me forever. The light in the liies became more intense. Only for a moment, only for a heartbeat, but intense enough to make me close my eyes.

And in that moment, with my eyes closed, I felt something. I felt how to say it.

I felt an answer. It wasn’t a voice. It wasn’t words. It was deeper than words.

It was a direct communication from spirit to spirit, from heart to heart. It was as if someone were telling me, “You are forgiven.

You are loved. You are seen. You are known. And everything will be all right.”

Was it the voice of the boy in the coffin? Was it the voice of God?

Was it just my mind that under extreme emotional stress was producing hallucinations? I don’t know.

I’ve never known. But in that moment, it didn’t matter. Because that silent communication filled me with a peace I had never known.

A peace that surpassed all understanding. I opened my eyes. The light in the liies had returned to normal.

Or perhaps it had always been normal. And I had simply stopped seeing it shine.

The fragrance was still intense but stable. The roses were still extraordinarily fresh but motionless.

Yet something had changed. Everything had changed. I had changed. I looked once more at the face of Carlo Audis.

That 15-year-old boy I had never known. That boy who in death had taught me what no one living had ever managed to teach me.

That there is something beyond. That there is meaning. That there is love. That there is a God.

Thank you, I whispered. Thank you, Carlo. I made the sign of the cross. It was the first time in 20 years that I did it spontaneously without it being just a social or cultural gesture.

It was the first time I did it with faith. Father Gian Mario approached me.

Mrs. Monte Verde, have you finished? Yes, father. I finished. The arrangements are beautiful. Really?

Thank you. But father, can I ask you something? Of course. Can I Can I stay for the wake?

The priest smiled. It was a smile that seemed to say, “I knew it. Certainly.

You’re welcome. And is there a way to to confess? I know it seems strange, but I I need to It’s not strange at all.”

He interrupted me gently. And yes, we can confess after the wake if you want or now if you prefer.

After is fine. I want I want to stay here close to him. I understand.

I don’t know if he really understood. How could he? How could I explain to him that I had just witnessed something that defied all logic?

That my flowers had lit up. That I had felt a presence. A communication, an answer that didn’t come from this world.

He would have thought I was crazy or too emotional or influenced. But it didn’t matter what he thought or anyone else.

I knew what I had seen. I knew what I had felt. And I knew that my life would never be the same again.

The wake began shortly after. The church filled up quickly. Hundreds of people, young, old, entire families.

Many were crying, but there was also something different. A subtle joy, a hope, a certainty.

People approached the coffin, looked at Carlo’s face, and many of them came out with the same expression I had seen.

Wonder, amazement, as if they had seen something they didn’t expect. I remained standing in a corner near my floral arrangements.

I observed everything. I listened to people talking. He looks like he’s sleeping. They all said, “He looks at peace.

What a serene face. You can see he’s with the Lord.” And I, who for 23 years had thought these were just circumstantial phrases, empty words to console the living, suddenly understood that they were true.

They were absolutely, incredibly true. During the wake, many people testified. They told about Carlo, about his love for the Eucharist, about his devotion to our Lady, about his purity, about his joy, about his charity toward the poor, about his use of technology to evangelize.

A girl in her 20s recounted through tears, “Carlo taught me to pray. I was far from the church.

I was lost.” And he with his simplicity, with his example, brought me back to God.

He told me, “If you stand before the sun, you get a tan. If you stand before the Eucharist, you become a saint.”

And he was right. An elderly priest recounted, “This boy had the faith of a doctor of the church.

At 15 years old, he knew theology better than many priests. But it wasn’t arid knowledge.

It was love. It was lived life. The mother, Mrs. Antonia, recounted the last days.

When the doctors told us there was nothing more to be done, Carlos smiled. He said, “I offer my sufferings for the Pope and for the church.”

Then he asked for the anointing of the sick. He received the Eucharist. Then Tuesday evening before falling asleep for the last time, he told me, “Mom, I’m going to Jesus.

I’m going straight to heaven. Straight to heaven.” A 15year-old boy facing death with that certainty.

For I, at 43 years old, had never believed that heaven existed. But now, now I looked at his face in that white coffin, looked at the subtle light that still seemed to hover around my liies and thought, “Maybe he was right.

Maybe he knew something I had always refused to see.” The wake lasted several hours.

I stayed the entire time. I couldn’t leave. It was as if I were magnetically attracted to that presence, to that peace that emanated from that coffin.

Toward evening, when most people had left and only some close relatives and friends remained in the church, Father Gian Mario approached me.

“Mrs. Monte Verde, do you want to confess now?” I nodded. I felt an urgent almost physical need to purify myself to empty out all the anger, all the skepticism, all the bitterness I had accumulated over the years.

I followed Father Gian Mario to the Sacrysty. There was a small confessional hidden behind a curtain.

I knelt down and began. Father, it’s been 20 years since my last confession. God always welcomes you, daughter.

Tell me. And I told I told how I had lost faith, how I had seen too much death and too much pain, how I had convinced myself that God didn’t exist or if he existed, he didn’t care about us.

I told how I had hardened my heart, how I had treated the dead as objects, how I had laughed inside myself at families who prayed over their deceased loved ones.

I told everything. I cried as I spoke. And father Gian Mario listened in silence with infinite patience.

When I finished, he remained silent for a long moment. Then he said, “Juliana, God has never abandoned you.

Not for a moment. Even when you denied him, he waited for you. And today, through this extraordinary boy, he has called you back to himself.”

Do you recognize this? Yes, father. I recognize it. Then repent of your sins and return to him with all your heart.

I repent, God. I repent of everything. Forgive me. Father Gian Mario gave me absolution.

I heard those ancient words. I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit.

As if I were hearing them for the first time. As if they finally meant something.

When I came out of the confessional, I felt light, as if an enormous weight had been lifted from my shoulders, as if I could finally breathe after years of holding my breath.

I returned to the church. Carlos’s coffin was still there, illuminated by candles. I approached once more.

“Thank you,” I whispered again. “Thank you for showing me the truth. Thank you for not abandoning me.

Thank you for this gift. And at that moment, I felt again that presence, that peace.

It wasn’t as strong as before. The light in the flowers was no longer there.

But there was a certainty, a sweet security. I wasn’t alone. I had never been alone.

That evening, I returned home transformed. I drove through the streets of Milan in a state of semi-trance.

My hands on the steering wheel, trembling slightly, my eyes still full of tears. Every red light was a moment of suspension where I mentally revisited that face, that light, that impossible peace.

The horns of other drivers brought me back to reality, but it was a reality that now seemed less real than the world I had glimpsed in that church.

I parked my van in the usual spot under my house in the Nigley area.

It was an old building with peeling plaster and windows that didn’t close well. I climbed the stairs slowly, counting each step as I had done thousands of times before.

But now it was different. Now each step seemed like a step towards something new, something I didn’t yet have a name for.

I entered my empty apartment. I had lived alone for 15 years since my husband Stefano had left me for a younger woman, a colleague from his office.

At first, I was devastated. Then slowly, I got used to it. I had filled the void with work, with routines, with the small habits you build when you live alone.

The evening news, dinner ready in front of the TV, an herbal tea before sleeping, the same things every evening, so that the silence of the apartment seemed less oppressive.

But that evening when I entered and closed the door behind me, the silence was different.

It wasn’t oppressive. It was full. It was as if someone were there with me, even though I was physically alone.

There was a presence, delicate but unmistakable, that filled the empty rooms. I let my bag fall on the entrance chair and leaned against the wall.

Tears began to flow again. Tears of relief, of joy, of wonder. Tears for all the wasted years believing that everything ended with death.

Tears for all the times I had looked at a lifeless body and had thought, “Here, this is the end.

There’s nothing else.” Tears because now I knew. I knew with a certainty that surpassed any rational doubt that I had been wrong.

Completely, totally wrong. I took off my shoes and walked barefoot toward the bedroom. My feet knew every inch of that floor, every creaking floorboard, every small imperfection.

But now I walked as if I were seeing it for the first time, as if everything, the walls, the furniture, the light filtering from the window were new, charged with possibility.

I opened the nightstand drawer. At the bottom, under old photographs and forgotten documents, was my grandmother’s rosary.

I hadn’t touched it in 20 years, maybe more. I took it with trembling hands.

The beads were olivewood, dark and smoothed by time and prayers. The crucifix was silvered metal, small and simple.

There was dust between the beads, dust from two decades of abandonment. I cleaned it delicately with the hem of my shirt, blowing away the dust, running my finger over each bead as if it were a rediscovered treasure.

And in a certain sense, it was. It was a link to a part of me I had buried, a part that was suddenly awakening.

I knelt beside the bed, just as my grandmother used to do when I was a child, and went to visit her.

I remembered her, small and bent, with gnarled hands running over the rosary beads, lips moving in silent prayer.

Back then I thought it was just an old habit, something elderly people did to pass the time.

But now, kneeling on the cold floor of my room with that rosary in my hands, I understood.

I understood that my grandmother wasn’t simply passing time. She was talking to someone. She was entering into contact with a dimension that I, in my youthful arrogance, and then in my adult cynicism, had always denied.

I tried to remember the prayers, the Our Father, I remembered, the Hail Mary, more or less, but the mysteries, the glorious, the sorrowful, the joyful.

I had no idea. I took my phone, that modern object that seemed so out of place in that moment of ancient spirituality, and searched on Google.

How to pray the rosary. I found a website that explained everything, the mysteries of the day, the prayers, the order.

I followed the instructions like a child learning for the first time. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I began making the sign of the cross.

The words seemed strange in my mouth, like a foreign language I hadn’t spoken in too long.

I believe in God, the Father Almighty. I continued reading from the phone. Each word was a step toward something.

Toward where I didn’t yet know, but I knew it was important that it was necessary.

Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with you. My voice cracked. I had heard that prayer a thousand times, at weddings, at funerals, at occasional masses I had attended out of social obligation.

But now pronouncing it myself, kneeling on the floor, the words had a different weight, a different meaning, full of grace.

The Lord is with you. Carlo had loved our Lady, the priest had said. He recited the rosary every day.

And I, who for decades had considered myself too modern, too rational, too emancipated for those Catholic superstitions, was now doing the same thing.

And I felt at home, as if finally, after 43 years of spiritual wandering, I had returned to the place where I should always have been.

When I finished the first mystery, I realized I was crying again. But it wasn’t a cry of sadness.

It was a cry of liberation. Like when after holding your breath for too long, you finally allow yourself to breathe deeply and the air fills your lungs, almost hurting you with the intensity of the sensation.

I continued mystery after mystery, bead after bead. And as I prayed, I thought of Carlo.

Of that boy I had never known. Of that serene face in the white coffin.

Of that impossible light in my liies. Of that fragrance that transcended biology. I thought about how he had lived only 15 years but seemed to have understood something that I, at 43 years old, was only now beginning to glimpse.

I thought about how he had faced death with serenity, with joy almost, offering it for the pope and for the church.

And I, who had seen hundreds of people die, who knew death in all its terrible aspects, the panic, the pain, the desperation, now saw that there was another way, a way to cross that threshold, not as a defeat, but as a return home.

When I finally finished the rosary, almost two hours had passed. My knees were sore.

My hands had cramps from holding the rosary tight. But my heart my heart was light, lighter than it had been in years.

Maybe ever. I got up slowly, leaning on the bed so as not to lose balance.

My body was tired, but my spirit was awake, alive, vibrant. I went to the kitchen and made myself chamomile tea.

Not because I needed it to sleep, but because I wanted something warm in my hands, something comforting while I processed everything that had happened.

I sat at the kitchen table, the same table where I had eaten thousands of solitary dinners, where I had cried after the divorce, where I had signed the documents for my business, where I had lived my entire adult life.

But now that table, that kitchen, that life seemed to be part of a before.

And I was in the after, in the after, Carlo, in the after light, in the after conversion.

I drank the chamomile slowly, letting the warmth spread through my body. And as I drank, I made a promise.

A promise to myself, to God, to Carlo. I promised that I would never forget what I had seen.

That I would never allow cynicism to take control again. That I would live the rest of my life, whether it be 5 years or 50 years, differently, with faith, with hope, with love.

That night, I slept deeply without the usual nightmares, without the usual anxious awakenings. And in my dreams, I saw white flowers glowing with golden light and a boy with a serene smile who told me, “Welcome home, Juliana.

Welcome home.” The following days were strange. I continued my work. I had to. It was my life.

But everything had changed. When I prepared arrangements for funerals, I no longer saw only death.

I saw transition. I saw passage. I saw hope. Families noticed. You’re different, Mrs. Monte Verde.

A widow told me. There’s something different about you. You seem more present, more compassionate.

I smiled. I learned something recently. What? I learned that death isn’t the end. The woman looked at me with tears in her eyes.

I hope so much. I hope my husband is somewhere happy. I’m certain of it, I replied.

And I truly was. In the following months, I heard more and more about Carlo Acutis.

His fame grew. People began to pray to him to ask for his intercession. There was talk of miracles, of healings, of conversions.

And I wasn’t surprised. Not at all. I knew that boy was special, that he was a saint.

Years later, when they announced the opening of the cause for beatatification, I cried with joy.

When they declared him venerable, I thanked God. And when in 2020 they beatified him.

I was there. I was in Aisi in the Basilica of St. Francis with thousands of other people.

I was 77 years old with white hair and arthritic hands, but I was alive in faith.

When the cardinal proclaimed Carlo blessed, I looked at his image on the big screen.

It was the same serene face from the coffin, the same smile. And I thought, there he is, the boy who saved me.

Today, as I tell this story, I’m 86 years old. I’m old and tired, but I’m not afraid because I know where I’m going.

I know that when I close my eyes for the last time, there will be someone waiting for me.

Maybe it will be Jesus, maybe our lady, or maybe it will be a 15year-old boy in jeans and a sweatshirt who will tell me, “Juliana, welcome.

I was waiting for you.” And when that moment comes, I want someone to prepare white liies and white roses for my funeral, like the ones I prepared for Carlo.

And I hope those flowers will shine, even just for a moment, for a soul that needs to see.

Because miracles exist. They’re not fairy tales. They’re real. I know it because I saw one in a white coffin in a church in Milan on an October afternoon.

I saw it in the serene face of a boy. I saw it in the light of a lily.

I saw it in my conversion. Carlo Acutis taught me that God is near, that God is real, that God loves us.

And I, who had spent a lifetime looking at death, learned to see life, true life, the one that never ends.

Thank you, Carlo. Thank you for showing me the way. Thank you for transforming my heart.

Pray for me. And when my moment comes, come get me. I want to see your smile one more time.

I want to feel that peace again. If this story has touched your heart, turn to blessed Carlo Acutis.

Pray for his intercession and perhaps you’ll see what I saw. That beyond this life there is another more beautiful more true.

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