It is sweltering hot in the Vatican City where tens of thousands of people are lining up to see the remains of Pope Francis.
I am one of them – my hair is stuck to my forehead and droplets of sweat are running down my neck. I have already apologised to at least a dozen people for bumping them with my tripod.
Mourners surrounding me seem more prepared, bringing water, umbrellas to shield from the unforgiving sun – even in the early hours of this morning.
We have been queuing for almost an hour, bodies glued to each other as the procession to lay the pontiff in St Peter’s Basilica is broadcast on big screens across the square.
I am standing shoulder to shoulder with nuns and priests, Italian couples, students on school trips and tourists with cameras dangling around their necks.
Vatican officers are forced to establish another entry point amid a danger of a crowd-crush.
When the gates finally open, it is like a ripple goes through the crowd. Not quite a cheer, not quite a gasp, just a collective sense of relief, anticipation and grief.
It takes another two hours to get to the gate of St Peter’s Basilica. People pass the time by praying, taking pictures and getting to know each other.
I am not Catholic – and I am not sure what I am supposed to feel – but the sense of faith surrounding me is humbling and inspiring at the same time.
Inside the basilica, it is much cooler, but the atmosphere is no less heavy.
Like me, many in the queue recognise that this is a moment in history they will remember and cherish forever.
Ahead of us, lays the coffin of the pontiff, framed by Michelangelo’s dome – a masterpiece of Renaissance architecture – and golden columns.
The sight hits me like a wave. Everyone only has a moment, a millisecond, to catch a glimpse of Francis before his funeral on Saturday in the Basilica of St Mary Major in Rome, where he will be entombed.
He chose to be buried at a much smaller basilica, about four miles away, outside the Vatican walls and near Termini station.
Step by step, I eventually reach the small, wooden coffin that Francis is laid in.
It is not sight I had actually prepared myself for in the queue to St Peter’s Basilica.
The pontiff is dressed in red robes, holding a rosary and wearing the papal mitre – the large white ceremonial headdress. He is also wearing a simple silver ring.
Francis is close, only a few metres away. In fact, so close that I can see his pale face, the wrinkles on his forehead and puffy cheeks.
His hands are crossed, palms placed on top of each other.
I hold my breath and drop my camera out of respect for this figure. It is a surreal momentous occasion I will remember forever.
What is also fascinating – and a sign of Francis’ character – is that even in his final moment he chose to break Vatican tradition to be buried like an ordinary, humble person – in a single wooden coffin, rather than the three nested coffins: cypress, lead, and oak
Outside, the sun is almost blinding. People are taking pictures outside the basilica.
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A few are wiping away tears, while others are taking a moment to accept what they have witnessed.
Some are pleading with security to go back inside to see Francis again, but are turned away.
I glimpse at the queue – it has swelled to at least 10 times its size and I imagine that it will only get bigger and bigger in the next two day up until the pope’s funeral.
It curls around St Peter’s Square and beyond, a testament to the pope’s legacy after 12 years as the head of the Catholic Church and sovereign of the Vatican City .
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