On dark nights, a saint will rise from their bed, go outside, and gaze with wonder at the moon. A breeze will caress them, a divine embrace elegantly transcribed into the realm of mere mortals. Light, far brighter than any produced in this universe, will set their eyes ablaze, and with eyes far older than the earth beneath their bare feet, they will see the works of God.

Hands, insubstantial yet possessing the strength to burn skin and break bone, will lift them up, snatch their soul from willing body, and transport them to the farthest reaches of the universe, to places telescopes will never be able to see. It is in these places that the secrets of life are revealed to them.

The saints are returned, words of prophecy scalding their lips, never to be heeded.

The saints return to their beds, hope in their veins and fear in their bones.