While most of Milan slept, a tall figure entered the refectory of Santa Maria delle Grazie. A lone monk secretly watched him make his way into the garden and proceed towards the refectory. The restless monk, a novice, had been unable to sleep due to the heat of summer and tried to cool off beneath the branches of an olive tree. Barefoot, he followed the shadowy figure. In the gloom of the refectory he could see the stranger had long hair and was holding a candle up to the far wall. In the long, narrow room, the stranger’s voice echoed.
‘Speak to me, Jesus, speak to me and I will listen. Come forth from this wall and speak. Peter, speak to me. Andrew, speak. James, son of Zebedee, John the beloved, brother of James, show me your favour and speak. Philip, Bartholomew, doubting Thomas, do no
