The square was quiet in a way only a place holding thousands could be – solemn, reverent, hushed with collective anticipation. I stood among pilgrims, tourists, clergy, and the curious, shoulder to shoulder in the cobbled embrace of Saint Peter’s Square, all eyes fixed on the narrow chimney jutting from the Sistine Chapel roof.

We were waiting for smoke – either white or black. A simple signal, ancient in its tradition, but weighty with significance.

The weather had held, mercifully. Clouds loomed, but the rain kept its distance. Flags fluttered lightly in the Roman breeze. Conversations whispered in dozens of languages drifted around me. Some prayed quietly. Others stared up in hopeful stillness, clutching rosaries or phones.

Then came movement. A flutter of attention, murmurs rising like the rustle of leaves before a storm. Smoke.

It poured out of the chimney in an uncertain stream. Eyes squinted. Phones rose. Was it white? Was it …?

No. Black.

A wave of subdued disappointment rippled through the crowd, not frustration, but the resignation of those who know history doesn’t rush. The cardinals inside the Sistine Chapel had not yet reached consensus. The new pope was still a mystery, a name yet to be chosen, a voice not yet heard.

Some around me sighed and turned away to find coffee or warmth. Others lingered, as I did, grounded to the cobblestones, absorbing the symbolism of it all. The black smoke wasn’t just a “no.” It was a “not yet.” It was the Church reminding the world that this decision – the choosing of a spiritual leader for over a billion people – would not be made lightly or quickly.

Being here in that moment, I realised, was not about witnessing the moment – but being present for the process, the tradition, the patience that such a moment requires.

We wait. We watch. We return tomorrow.

And eventually, the white smoke will come.