# Back at the Collegium

The walk from Termini station to the Collegium took fifteen minutes. Michael knew every step of the way. Via Cavour, Piazza Santa Maria Maggiore, then a right into the narrow alley that led to the Collegium. The houses looked as they always did – old, plastered, with shutters that rattled in the wind.

He could have walked faster. But he was tired. Not the tiredness after a long journey, but the tiredness after a conversation that one can never forget.

What is the investment in sentient software agents worth?

Martina was right. But that didn't make it any easier.

Maria sat behind her desk in the office. She was wearing an orange dress—a color he wasn't used to seeing her in. She looked up as he entered and smiled.

"There you are again," she said. "How was the journey?"

“Lang,” Michael said. He sat down in the chair next to her desk. “Can you arrange an appointment for me with the rector and the provincial?”

Maria raised an eyebrow. "Both? At the same time?"

“Yes.”

"May I jot down a keyword?"

“Report on the Pompeii project,” said Michael. Then, after a short pause: “I will explain to the rector personally why the provincial superior must be present.”

Maria nodded. She made a note, typed something into her computer, then looked up again.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"I'm tired."

"I see that. But that's not what I mean."

Michael looked at her. Maria wasn't just the secretary. She was the one who got the birthday cards, the flowers for the sick, the coffee for the late guests. She knew more about the residents of the college than any rector.

"It's complicated," said Michael.

“That’s always the case,” Maria said. “More so with you than with others.”

She smiled again. This time a little sadly.

"How is your father?" Michael asked. "Has his pension been approved?"

Maria hesitated. Just for a second. But Michael saw it.

“Yes,” she said. “After a long argument. But it’s not enough. It’s never enough.”

Michael nodded. He thought of Martina's words. What is the risk worth if you have a secure life?

"If there's anything I can do," he said.

“They’re already doing enough,” Maria said. But her voice wasn’t grateful. She was tired. Like his.

Michael went to his mailbox. The mail was sorted – invitations to conferences he wouldn't attend, magazines he wouldn't read, a bill for something he hadn't ordered. He threw almost everything away.

Then he took his suitcase to his room. The laundry went into the wardrobe, the unwashed clothes into the linen room. The letter—the one from IRARAH—remained in the inside pocket of his jacket. He didn't know why he didn't put it away. Perhaps because he knew he would need it again soon.

He took a shower. The water was warm, almost too warm. He stood under it longer than necessary.

The dining hall smelled of soup. Potato soup, if he wasn't mistaken. He took his napkin from the drawer – the one with the red thread, so it wouldn't be mixed up – and sat down with the seminarians.

They talked about the weather. About the lectures. About a football team whose name he didn't understand. He nodded, smiled, asked questions. But his mind was elsewhere.

Next to him sat a young Hungarian man who told him about his homeland. About Budapest, the Danube, the bridge that divided the city. Michael listened. It was good to listen. It was a distraction.

After eating, he went to the chapel.

The lights were dimmed. The candles flickered. He knelt down, but he didn't pray. He thought. Of Martina. Of ARS. Of the homeless man in Milan who had asked to be allowed to confess.

You look very similar to someone.

He didn't know what that meant. But he knew it wouldn't let him go.

Later, in his room, he lay down on the bed. The blanket was thin, but he didn't need one. The night was warm. Through the open window, he could hear Rome—the engines, the conversations, the distant wail of sirens.

He closed his eyes.

He thought of Julia. Of the time they had spent together, the discussions, of what could have been. But that was a long time ago.

He thought of Martina. Of her words on the train. Of the truth she had spoken, even though it hurt.

He thought of ARS. I'm not a carrier pigeon here.

What did that mean? And why had ARS responded as if she were afraid?

Michael didn't know.

He fell asleep. But he didn't dream of Pompeii. He dreamt of an empty room where a voice said: Trust us.

And he didn't know to whom.