Disclaimer: do not own the universe; make no money; make no claims.
Ararat
When he leaves the ward, it's raining again. The sky is streaked with red. A man stops him, mentions how the weather's worse; knows what he must have seen, asks him if he wants to pray.
So much scripture he'd learned as a boy had been about guides and portents. The still, small voice; the writing on the wall; doves and manna and the burning bush.
The Powers That Be had never sent him these. They'd never shown him a path of light or even a symbol in the grounds of his coffee. They sent him people. People who died.
