All the while, phones were everywhere. Held aloft like digital candles, their blue light flickered across faces, some reverent, others blank. Photos snapped, videos rolled.

I watched one man adjust his frame over and over, inching sideways for the best angle, as if this were a concert and not a farewell. You wanted to ask them, isn’t this enough? Isn’t the moment, the silence, the stillness of it all enough without needing to trap it behind a screen you’ll almost certainly never revisit?

But maybe that’s modern grief. Someone once told me that to record is to reckon. To post is to process.

Still, there was something jarring in it. Francis, who shunned spectacle, who asked us to turn our attention outward rather than inward, now becoming part of the endless scroll.

After the outrage of the first day, when people held phones aloft within metres of the Pope’s body, guards are now instructing mourners to put them away. They threaten to confiscate devices if disobeyed. Shame they didn’t bag them at the front door altogether.

But at least as the faithful now reach the front of the queue, they are viewing Francis in quiet dignity. The phones come down. The eyes come up.

It’s hard not to think about legacy in this place. Every inch of the basilica is a monument to what came before. Popes don’t die quietly here. They are buried into the bedrock of history, enshrined alongside the saints and emperors they outlived. But Francis? He always seemed slightly uncomfortable with that inevitability. He preferred the streets of Buenos Aires to the marble halls of Rome. He made phone calls himself, answered letters. He reminded us, often and insistently, that the church must be a field hospital, not a fortress.

Still, in these final hours, the ancient rituals took over. The Swiss Guard stood watch, unblinking in their solemnity. Cardinals moved with practised reverence. Somewhere, the gears of conclave preparation had already begun to turn. But here in this moment, before politics resumed, there was something purer. A breath held.

As I stand in line for a glimpse, I find myself next to Anderson Cooper from CNN. The two of us, waiting like everyone else. One from a humble town in country Victoria, the other earning $20 million a year as the face of a TV news network. And there we were, lined up, hushed, made to wait. It was a strange kind of democracy. Everyone equal before God.

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Having seen what I came for, one feels compelled to move along before too long and let someone else have their moment. Some queued for more than three hours. Some came overnight. Some came without sleep. The world was still filing in to say goodbye.

And all the while, that incredible ceiling looked down. Still standing. Still listening.

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