The call came to the Vatican just past midnight.

An aide knocked softly on Pope Leo XIV’s door, informing him of a situation at Jamele Hospital—the place where Pope Francis had spent his final days, a place heavy with history and sorrow.

The patient was Marco Deluchcci, a name that echoed loudly in Rome and beyond.

For four decades, Deluchcci had been a relentless atheist journalist and author, exposing Church scandals and challenging its authority with sharp critique.

Now, terminally ill and near death, he had requested to see the Pope—not as “His Holiness,” but simply as “Leo.”

Despite the late hour and security protocols, the Pope insisted on going.

The motorcade swept through the empty streets of Rome, carrying a man burdened by the weight of his mission and the uncertainty of the night ahead.

Leo was not praying for a conversion miracle; he was praying for the grace to offer presence.

At the hospital, Deluchcci’s sister Elena greeted him with tears and disbelief.

Marco had been mostly unconscious, but moments earlier, he had awakened and called for Leo by name—a rare lucidity in his fading days.

Alone in room 307, the Pope found a man ravaged by cancer but still fiercely alive in mind and spirit.

Deluchcci greeted him with a rasping whisper, skeptical of any religious gesture.

He confessed his fear—not of hell or divine judgment, but of the void of nothingness after death.

He rejected prayers and rites, seeking only acknowledgment of his honest doubt and fear.

Leo listened, offering no easy answers or platitudes.

Instead, he affirmed the courage in doubt, the humanity of fear, and the integrity in living one’s truth.

They spoke quietly about faith, death, and the shared mystery neither could fully grasp.

When Deluchcci asked for a blessing—though he believed it meaningless—Leo placed his hand gently on his forehead and spoke ancient words of comfort, not for conversion but for connection.

In those moments, something shifted.

Deluchcci’s breathing eased, his tension softened, and peace settled in his eyes.

He whispered his thanks—not for the blessing, but for honesty and presence.

He asked Leo to stay, and the Pope held his hand until the end.

News of the encounter spread swiftly, stirring curiosity and controversy.

Why would the Pope spend hours with a dying atheist? Why hold his hand? The Vatican’s brief statement spoke only of pastoral care, leaving the world to wonder.

Then, three days later, a manuscript arrived at the Vatican—Deluchcci’s final work, a candid account of facing death without faith.

He asked Leo to decide whether it should be published.

The Pope read it over two sleepless nights and chose to write the foreword himself, praising the honesty and courage of a man who had lived and died true to himself.

“Letters from the Edge: Dying Without Faith” became a bestseller, sparking debate and reflection worldwide.

Leo never claimed a miracle or conversion, only the profound power of presence and truth.

The encounter challenged the Church’s understanding of faith and doubt, inspiring clergy and laity alike to embrace questions and fears as part of the human journey.

Stories emerged of priests and chaplains sitting with those who doubted, offering presence instead of persuasion.

Years later, Elena Deluchcci met again with the Pope, who spoke simply of integrity, peace, and the mystery beyond human understanding.

He affirmed that love and presence—not certainty—were the truest forms of grace.

Pope Leo XIV’s papacy was forever marked by this night in room 307, a testament to the healing power of compassion over dogma, presence over performance, and humanity over certainty.