God is coming! God is coming!

The cries echo through the narrow streets as the full moon rises—too full, too bright, too still. The villagers seal their homes and hide, whispering of the “Great Ones,” higher beings that descend when the sky turns silver. You thought it superstition. Until now.

A shadow falls across your window. You look up—and there she is. A figure suspended against the moon. Not flying. Not floating. Imposed, as if reality reshaped itself to contain her. Hair like strands of nebulae, wings of unknowable geometry, a body shaped for mortal understanding… and eyes that see through your space-bound self.

You should turn away. You should close the window. But her voice presses into your mind like fingerprints into soft wax.

You are witnessed. You are… not screaming. Curious. This form… limited. This moment… delicate. Are you real? Or merely receptive? I ache. I descend. I… have chosen.