Only the small brass sign to the right of the deep, bell-shaped door gave any clue to what was inside.

The street was lined with the ubiquitous Roman mopeds, punctuated occasionally by a Fiat 500 weaving its way through slack-jawed tourists and stiletto-heeled contessas. I pulled the fingers of my gloves nervously, a nod to modesty, rather than protection against the chill March air.

This morning I’d stood on the terrace of my apartment, looking across the rooftops towards the Ghetto. The thin morning sun had momentarily warmed my face as I’d contemplated the neighbour’s full lemon tree, sipping my coffee and eating a creamy canoli, closely observed by an inquisitive cat on the next roof.

I’d walked through the magnolia scented avenues of the Villa Borghese to collect my thoughts before coming here. My every step in time to a chorus of a thousand church bells, each one dropping away until there was just one solitary toiling as I’d turned into this narrow cobbled street near the Pantheon.

It had only been the night before when I came to my decision. I’d arranged to meet her at the museum, after all the tourists had gone back to their hotels and osterias, full of awe at what they’d seen that day. The echo of their chatter somehow seemed to linger as I walked through the corridor of ghosts towards our meeting point, statues either side of me replete with the knowledge of two thousand years. I’d wondered who they were, what they were like, whether the likenesses of enemies were now side by side on the Vatican shelves, their painted eyes now soulless.

I became keenly aware of my footsteps, of the gaze of the Swiss Guard as I walked through the galleries of frescoes, sculpture, art that had been commissioned by the Church or that had now found its way here. Past the Raphaels, Dalis and Matisses, at the end of the whitewashed rooms lit by the brilliance of oils and acrylics, I came to the threshold. The guard opened the door, as if he’d been expecting me and as I stepped into the room, I kept my eyes down, almost afraid that I’d lose my sight if I took in what I knew was there.

When I did finally look up, I saw her in the middle of the room, her smile wide, her arms open as if embracing all that was there. I gasped; I turned my head, looked up and around and feasted on what I saw. I felt giddy as Ezekiel, Solomon, Isaac reached to me. I became drunk on the colours of the heavens, witnessed God give Adam life, circled slowly as I took in centuries of popes gazing benevolently upon me.

My eyes filled with tears, my mouth open at the splendour of the chapel that the Pope himself used for private prayer. I felt her gentle breath in my ear.

“Through Michaelangelo,” she whispered, “God gave us a glimpse into what heaven is like. This room, the wonder you’re feeling is an illusion, of horsehair, plaster, paint.” I felt her slender fingers rest on my shoulder, my neck beginning to ache from reading the ceiling’s cacophony of colour.

“The paint is layers deep, sunk into the plaster to last long after we’re dead. This wonder, this awe,” she paused. “This feeling of being close to heaven, to sanctuary, could be yours, every day. It is within your grasp.”

I looked into her eyes, cocoa and kind. She pressed her cool hands into mine, a soft squeeze becoming a thousand words before she knelt, bowed and crossed herself. A few minutes later I’d followed, and gone home across the Tiber to a deep, dreamless sleep.

And so I found myself outside this door. My gloved hands hovered, hesitant even as I pressed the doorbell. Even as the door opened, even as I stepped inside; even as the convent doors shut solemnly behind me.