There were moments in life where the world tilted—quietly, gently, but unmistakably. Moments where reality unraveled like a loose thread, not in chaos, but in revelation. This was one of them.
Luke couldn't speak. Couldn't think. He just stood there, frozen at the ledge where hundreds had gathered earlier, now emptied of noise and bodies, with only the lingering hum of waves below. And beside him… her.
Saint Cynthia.
Or… someone who bore her exact likeness. But no, it wasn't a guess. Not a chance. He could feel it in the air. In the gravity of her presence. In the inexplicable stillness that seemed to wrap around them both like a second atmosphere. She hadn't said a word, hadn't even turned to him—and yet he knew. This wasn't a priestess or an impostor. This wasn't some lookalike or costumed devotee. No ordinary woman radiated divinity by simply standing still.
