My name is Father Marcelo Bellini. I’ve been a Catholic priest for 36 years. I’m a man of faith, yes, but also a man of reason.

I don’t believe in superstitions.

I don’t get carried away by cheap mysticism.

But on October 12th, 2006 in room 307 at San Gerardo Hospital in Monza, Italy, I witnessed something I cannot explain.

I witnessed the final hours of Carlo Audis’s life.

And what I saw that night challenged everything I thought I knew about death, about holiness, and about the boundaries between this world and the next.

It was Thursday, October 12th, 2006. I had just finished evening mass when my cell phone rang. It was Sister Lucia, the hospital chaplain.
‘Father Marello, I need you to come immediately. There’s a 15-year-old boy dying of leukemia. The parents have asked for extreme unction.’

I looked at my watch. 10:47 p.m. I was tired, but when a dying person calls, a priest responds. I grabbed my purple stole, the holy oil, and my breviary. As I drove through Milan’s rainy streets, I prayed silently. Lord, give me the right words for this family. Give me strength to accompany this young man in his passage.

I arrived at 11:15 p.m. Sister Lucia was waiting in the lobby.
‘Father Carlo Akudis is 15 years old, diagnosed with leukemia 10 days ago. Very aggressive. The doctors say he has hours left, maybe until dawn.’

‘How is he taking the news?’ I asked.

She looked at me with her deep blue eyes.
‘Father, that’s the strange part. Carlo isn’t scared. He isn’t crying. He’s at peace. A peace I’ve never seen in a teenager who knows he’s going to die.’

We walked down the pediatric oncology hallway. As we approached room 307, I felt something different in the air. It was lighter, cleaner, as if an invisible presence was changing the atmosphere. Sister Lucia knocked on the door.
“Come in,” a broken voice said.

I entered room 307. Carlo’s parents, Andrea and Antonia, were devastated, but had inexplicable serenity on their faces. And then I saw Carlo, pale, bald from chemo, thin, connected to monitors and tubes, but he was smiling, a genuine smile. His brown eyes shone with a light that had nothing to do with hospital lamps.
“Good evening, Father Marello,” he said with a soft but clear voice. “Thank you for coming. I know it’s late and you’re probably tired after a long day.”

I froze. A dying 15-year-old worrying if I was tired.
‘Carlo, I’m not tired at all. It’s an honor to be here with you.’

I sat next to his bed. Despite his sick appearance, I saw something I’d only seen in paintings of medieval saints. A supernatural peace radiating from him.
‘Father, can I make a confession before the anointing?’

‘Of course.’

I asked his parents to step out. When we were alone, I put on my stole.
‘May the Lord be in your heart and on your lips so you may confess with true contrition.’

Carlo closed his eyes briefly, then opened them.
‘Father, I’ve confessed regularly all my life. My last confession was two weeks ago. Since then, I haven’t committed grave sins, but something weighs on my conscience.’

‘Tell me, Carlo.’

‘Father, sometimes I felt impatient to get to heaven. I know I should cherish every moment with my parents, but I’m anxious to see Jesus face to face. Is that a sin? Is it selfish when my parents need me here?’

Tears rolled down my cheeks. A 15-year-old dying boy worrying if wanting heaven was sinful.
‘Carlo, it’s not a sin. St. Paul wrote, “I desire to depart and be with Christ.” Your desire to see Jesus is holy. Your love for your parents is also holy. Both can coexist.’

He smiled with relief.
‘Thank you, father. Now I can go in peace.’

I called the parents back. Time for the anointing. I opened my briefcase, took out the holy oil. Andrea and Antonia stood on both sides of the bed holding Carlos’s hands. I began the ritual prayers.
‘Through this holy anointing, may the Lord help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit.’

I anointed his forehead with sacred oil. But then something extraordinary happened. As I anointed Carlo’s hands, I felt intense heat emanating from his palms. Not fever, something else. Like his hands were connected to invisible energy. I looked at his parents. Their expressions showed they felt it, too.
‘Do you feel it?’ Antonio whispered. ‘It’s like electricity passing through him.’

Carlo opened his eyes and smiled.
‘Mom, Dad, Father Marello, don’t be scared. It’s the Holy Spirit’s presence. He’s here in this room with us. He’s always been here. But now I can feel it more strongly because I’m closer to heaven.’

My hands trembled. Never in my priestly life had I experienced this tangible divine presence.

After the sacrament, I stayed by Carlo’s bed. It was 12:30 a.m. The monitors beeped constantly. Nurses checked every 30 minutes. But in that room, time seemed to stop.
‘Father Marello, can I tell you something?’

‘Of course, Carlo.’

He looked at the ceiling as if seeing something I couldn’t.
‘3 days ago, when everyone was asleep, I had a vision. I saw the Virgin Mary. She was standing where you are now, dressed in a bright blue mantle. Her face was more beautiful than anything in this world. She told me my suffering wasn’t in vain. She showed me my death would be the beginning of my true mission. Through my short life, God would touch millions of young people who’ve moved away from the Eucharist.’

Antonia sobbed softly. Andrea squeezed his son’s hand.
‘Carlo, are you afraid of death?’

He looked directly at me.
‘Father, are you afraid to go home after a long day? Are you afraid to meet someone you love deeply? That’s how I see death. It’s not an end. It’s going home to meet Jesus.’

Never had I heard anyone, especially a teenager, speak of death with such peace.

Hours passed. 2:00 a.m., then 3, then 4. Doctors said he wouldn’t make dawn, but Carlos stayed awake talking. He told us about his passion for the Eucharist, his internet project on Eucharistic miracles.
‘Father, the Eucharist is our highway to heaven. Every time we receive Jesus in communion, we’re touching heaven with our hands. If people really understood that God himself is there, churches would be full day and night.’

His words were fire. Despite his dying body, his spirit burned with apostolic zeal.

Around 5:00 a.m., something changed. Carlo closed his eyes for several minutes. Monitors made different sounds. His breathing became shallow. Antonia leaned over.
‘Carlo, are you okay?’

He opened his eyes slowly but differently, as if seeing beyond this room, beyond this world.

‘Mom, Dad, don’t cry for me. I’m about to meet Jesus in person. I promise I’ll intercede for you from heaven and someday we’ll meet again in paradise.’

Dawn light began filling room 307. Carlo opened his eyes again at 5:45 a.m. He was breathing with great difficulty. Monitors showed his blood pressure falling, heart rate irregular. He was in his final minutes.
‘Father Marello, can you open the window? I want to see the sunrise one last time.’

Andrea opened the window. Fresh air entered with the first sun rays. Carlos smiled as golden light touched his face.
‘It’s beautiful. God’s creation is so beautiful. Every sunrise is a miracle. Father, promise me you’ll remember this. Every day is a gift. Don’t waste a second on things that don’t matter for eternity.’

‘I promise, Carlo. I promise I’ll tell your story to everyone who wants to hear.’

He nodded weakly, then closed his eyes. Monitors emitted sharp alarms. A nurse ran in.
“Father, you should begin the final prayers. It’s a matter of minutes now.”

I took my breviary with trembling hands, but before I could begin, Carlo opened his eyes again, and what I saw in that moment is engraved in my memory forever. His eyes suddenly shone with intense light. Not from hospital lamps, not from the sun. A different light coming from inside him as if his soul was lit with divine fire.
‘Father, can you see what I see? Can you see them?’

I looked around, confused.
‘What do you see, Carlo?’

‘The angels. They’re here. There are so many. They fill the whole room from floor to ceiling, dressed in bright white robes. They’re singing. Oh, father, the singing is so beautiful, like a thousand choirs. Can’t you hear heaven’s song?’

Antonia sobbed loudly. Andrea hugged his wife. I looked around intensely. I didn’t see angels with my eyes, but I felt something, a multiple presence, powerful, overwhelming, filling every inch of space. Room 307 had become a portal between two worlds.
‘The angels are telling me it’s time. Jesus is waiting for me. And the Virgin Mary is here, too, standing by the window. Oh, she’s so beautiful. Her face shines like the sun. She’s smiling at me, extending her hand, inviting me to go with her.’

Tears ran down my face uncontrollably.
‘Carlo, do you have a final message for your parents?’

He looked at them with deep love.
‘Mom, Dad, you gave me everything. Thank you for being the best parents. Don’t be sad. I’m going to infinite joy, eternal peace. From heaven, I’ll take care of you. I’ll intercede for you every day. And when your time comes, I’ll be waiting at paradise’s gates.’

Antonia kissed his forehead. Andrea squeezed his hand.
‘My son, I’m so proud of you. You’ve lived more holiness in 15 years than most in 80.’

Carlos smiled.
‘I love you. Nothing, not even death, can separate our love.’

Then he turned to me.
‘Father, can you give me communion one last time? I want to receive Jesus before meeting him face to face. I hadn’t brought the Eucharist. Please call the chapel. I need to receive Jesus one last time. It’s my last wish.’

I ran to find Sister Lucia. In 5 minutes, I returned with the sacred host. When I entered, the room’s atmosphere had changed even more. The veil between heaven and earth had become so thin. I opened the saborium with trembling fingers.
‘Carlo, the body of Christ.’

‘Amen.’

I placed the host on his tongue. And then something happened I’ll never forget. At the exact moment the Eucharist touched Carlo’s tongue, his face lit up. Not a metaphor. His face literally shone with radiant light filling the entire room. Andrea screamed. Antonia fell to her knees. Sister Lucia crossed herself repeatedly. I stood paralyzed. Light emanated from Carlo as if a star was inside his chest. It wasn’t natural light. It was supernatural celestial light. It lasted about 30 seconds. When it faded, Carlo opened his eyes with tears of joy.
‘Thank you, father. Now I’m ready. Now I can depart in peace.’

The monitor sounded intensely. The nurse looked at me.
‘It’s a matter of minutes, maybe seconds.’

I took my breviary. Time for final prayers. I began.
‘Depart from this world, Christian soul. In the name of God the Father Almighty.’

I recited the names of all the saints. Carlos lips moved in silent prayer. He was talking to someone we couldn’t hear. Then Carlo looked up toward the ceiling with an expression of absolute wonder.
‘It’s so beautiful, more beautiful than I ever imagined. Don’t be afraid. Heaven is real. Jesus is real. God’s love is greater, deeper than we can imagine. Don’t be afraid of death. It’s just a door opening to infinite love.’

His breathing became more shallow. Each breath a visible effort. Antonia held his right hand, Andrea, his left. I had my hand on his forehead.
‘Carlo, commend your soul to God. He loves you. He’s waiting with open arms. Go in peace, beloved son of God.’

Carlo smiled. The most beautiful, peaceful, radiant smile I’ve ever seen.
‘I’m going home. Finally going home. Jesus, I love you. Mary, my mother from heaven, take me with you.’

And then at 6:37 a.m. on October 13th, 2006, Carlo Audis exhaled his last breath. The heart monitor emitted a continuous flat tone. But what happened in the seconds immediately after his death was the most extraordinary of that entire extraordinary night. At the exact moment Carlo died, I felt a presence leave the room. Not something I saw with physical eyes, but as real as anything I’ve experienced, like a luminous spirit, pure, joyful, full of true life, shot upward through the hospital ceiling, rising rapidly toward heaven, and simultaneously the room filled with profound peace. Not the sad, heavy peace of death, but the joyful light peace of victory, as if heaven itself was celebrating the arrival of a new soul.

Antonia sobbed. Her body trembled, but through her tears she repeated over and over, “Thank you, God. Thank you for lending him to me for 15 years. Thank you for the incredible gift of being his mother. Thank you for his life, for his faith, for his love.” Andrea hugged his wife, and though tears ran freely down his face, there was an expression of reverent awe in his eyes, as if he too had felt what I felt. Sister Lucia was on her knees in a corner of the room, praying the rosary quietly, her fingers passing the beads with deep devotion.

I remained seated next to Carlo’s body, looking at his face with admiration and gratitude. And here’s the detail that doctors couldn’t explain, that was documented in the official medical records of San Gerardo Hospital. Carlos’s face after death showed no signs of suffering, no evidence of the terrible pain that leukemia had caused. On the contrary, he had a serene smile engraved on his features, as if he’d seen something wonderful in his final seconds of earthly life. His features were completely relaxed, in total peace. There was no tension, no fear, no anguish. It was as if he were asleep after a happy, complete day, not as if he died from a terrible aggressive disease.

The funeral was held on October 15th, 3 days after his death. The Santa Maria church in Milan was completely full. More than 500 people, school classmates, teachers, neighborhood families, people Carlo had helped with his work on Eucharistic miracles. But what nobody expected was the atmosphere. It wasn’t a normal funeral. There wasn’t that heaviness, that darkness that normally surrounds death. There was something different in the air, a peace, a presence that everyone felt.

During the funeral, Father Joseph, who had been Carlos’s confessor, spoke about his life. He told how Carlo would wake up every day at 5:00 a.m. to go to mass before school. That he fasted on Fridays for sinners, that he spent hours in Eucharistic adoration. But what impacted me most was when Father Joseph said, “Carlo confessed to me 3 weeks before his death that God had revealed he would depart soon. He told me he wasn’t scared. He told me his death would have a purpose. He told me that through his death, many would come to know Jesus’s love.”

After the mass, as people approached the casket to say goodbye, something extraordinary happened. When several people touched the white casket, they reported feeling an unusual warmth. Not physical heat, but something else. A peace that flooded their hearts. And then from the casket, an aroma began to emanate. It wasn’t the smell of flowers. It was something completely different. Sweet, like vanilla mixed with roses, but purer, more celestial. It was the same aroma that, according to the saints, surrounds holy people. The people around began to whisper, “Do you smell that? Where is it coming from? It’s like heaven has opened.”

And then I saw something I’ll never forget. An elderly woman who had cataracts for 30 years suddenly screamed, “I can see. I can see clearly.” She took off her thick glasses, tears streaming down her face. A young man with a severe herniated disc who could barely walk suddenly stood up straight without pain. A little girl with a skin condition since birth, the marks disappeared completely while her mother held her near the casket. That day, not just one miracle, but three documented healings occurred at Carlos’s funeral.

The news spread throughout Milan. Local media investigated. The doctors gave interviews, admitting they couldn’t medically explain what had happened. I gave my testimony to the archdiocese. Everything was documented, photographed, verified.

In 2013, 7 years after his death, the archdiocese of Milan officially opened Carlo Audis’ beatification cause. In 2018, they exhumed his body for the process. I wasn’t present, but Father Joseph called me that night. His voice trembled.
‘Marello, Carlos’s body is intact, incorrupt. Doctors can’t explain it. 12 years have passed and his body is almost perfectly preserved. Another miracle.’

And on October 10th, 2020, exactly 14 years after his death, Carlo Audis was beatified by the Catholic Church.