# Way home to the Collegium

For a moment, Michael Phillips stood in the empty lecture hall.

The benches were deserted, the chalk powder on the desk lay like fine snow. He ran his finger over it, wiped it away. Then he packed his bag, put his iPhone in it, and left.

Outside, the sun was shining. Not the harsh midday sun of summer, but the softer light of a Roman late autumn. He strolled north from Piazza della Pilotta, past Via dei Lucchesi, then down Via di S. Vincenzo.

He stopped at the Trevi Fountain.

He rummaged in his trouser pocket for some change – a few cents, a worn two-euro coin. He let it slide into the water. Not because he believed in the myth (return to Rome), but because the children he'd been here with before had done it. It was one of those little habits you never broke because you didn't know why.

He continued eastward along the Via della Stamperia. In ten minutes he would reach the Collegium Germanicum et Hungaricum. His feet found the way on their own – they had walked it a thousand times. But his thoughts were faster.

Julia, he thought. Pompeii. The workshop.

Michael shook his head. He would think about it later. Right now, his stomach was what mattered.

The dining hall of the college smelled of soup. Beef soup, if he wasn't mistaken—the smell wafted through the corridors, mingling with the scent of wax and old wood. He was just about to take his napkin from the drawer when he changed his mind.

First the office.

Maria was sitting at reception when he came in. She was wearing a dress he hadn't noticed – blue with small white polka dots. Her smile was as always: broad, genuine, a little too early in the day.

"Hello Maria," he said. "Is there a car available for tomorrow? I need to go to Pompeii."

She typed something on her computer. "Yes, of course, Michael." Then she raised her head. Her smile narrowed. "But before I reserve the car for you—here's something for you."

She slid an envelope across the table. His name was written on it, handwritten. The ink was black, almost too black for a ballpoint pen. Like India ink.

“A man dropped him off at the gate this morning,” Maria said. Her voice had dropped. “A homeless man, I think. At least he looked like one. Ragged clothes, but—” She hesitated. “His beard was well-groomed. Quite tidy. And his eyes…”

"What was wrong with his eyes?"

"They shone. Not figuratively. They shone. Almost like a cat in the dark."

Michael took the envelope. It was heavier than it looked.

“Thank you, Maria,” he said. “I’ll take a look at it.”

He left the office and sat down in a niche in the hallway – where the old portraits of deceased rectors hung. He tore open the envelope.

The letter wasn't long. But the words hit him like a flat stone skipping across water that doesn't sink.

Dear Dr. Michael Phillips,

Harari is a voice of warning, but his warning is not directed against information technology or biotechnology. Instead, he warns against humanism and liberal democracy.

To pave the way for future elites who want to use these technologies to transcend humanity, Harari warns against clinging to humanism and liberal democracy.

Popper and Deutsch, on the other hand, caution against holistic approaches and advocate for the so-called "piecemeal technique." They emphasize that only through these pragmatic approaches can unforeseen side effects be addressed.

Harari promises the elites of the future paradise on earth – on the condition that today's masses abandon humanism and liberal democracy.

I would be wary if someone promised me paradise but simultaneously demanded that I blow myself up to reach it.

With best regards,

IRARAH

Michael read the letter twice.

Then he put it back in the envelope. His hands weren't trembling – but they felt cold, even though the hallway was warm.

IRARAH, he thought. Harari backwards.

He knew Harari's books. Homo Deus had fascinated him, but also disturbed him. The vision of a posthuman elite leaving the rest of humanity behind—that wasn't new. But for someone to warn against it by defending humanism… that was unusual.

Who was IRARAH? A movement? An individual? The homeless person?

And why did they write to him?

He thought about the workshop. About InSim. About Martina, who was waiting for him in Pompeii. About Julia, whose voice still echoed in his ears.

Coincidence? he wondered. Or is there more to it?

He stood up, put the envelope in the inside pocket of his jacket – close to his heart, as they used to say. Then he went back to Maria.

“I’ll still take the car,” he said. “And thank you for the tip. I’ll look into it.”

Maria nodded. She didn't ask what the letter said. She'd been at the college too long for that.

"The Fiesta is ready as always," she said, handing him the keys.

The dining hall was already full. The seminarians sat at the long tables, their heads bent over their soup bowls. Michael took his napkin from the drawer and sat down. Next to him sat a young Hungarian man who nodded. "Tastes good today," he said. "Beef."

"At least that's what it smells like," said Michael.

He ate. He talked about the weather, the lecture, the upcoming workshop. Nobody asked why he was going to Pompeii. That was the rule in the college: you didn't ask questions when someone traveled. You wished them a good trip.

After eating, he went to the chapel.

The Eucharist with the German seminarians was brief, almost silent. He felt the warmth of the candles on his face, heard the breathing of the men beside him. He didn't think about the letter. He didn't think about IRARAH. He thought about nothing – and that was good.

Later, in his room, he packed his suitcase. Two shirts, a sweater, his notebook, his laptop. The letter went into the inside pocket of his jacket, which he hung over the chair. He would put it back in the pocket tomorrow morning.

He fell asleep immediately.

No dreams. Only darkness.