Each short chapter is a vignette from Sylvan's life, in chronological order. The story is cross-posted to AO3, and later chapters may only appear there due to sexual content that will increase the age rating.
Spoilers for Full Circle (but lezbereal, the book has been out for almost five years exactly as of this posting).
Sylvan left Earth on the last day of June, 1808. The morning was already sweltering, perfect for a mass baptism in the cool mountain stream. People from miles around brought their sick and injured, human and animal, to be healed by the girl with the touch of God. She was fortunate that all of northwestern Virginia (a few paranoid pastors aside) had decided that her powers stemmed from God and not the Devil. Because of course, all things came from either one or the other.
She balanced barefoot on a slippery rock amid the churning waters, bodies clothed in white, and spontaneous bursts of song. The faithful waded in a barely-restrained line, submerged themselves in the deepest part, and grasped her hands when they surfaced. She stitched their frayed souls back together as a smooth blue rock grew warm in her apron pocket, kept secret from anyone who would deem it diabolic. There was no evil in unclouding an old woman's cataracts or instantly mending a horse's broken leg. Unlike the Devil who bargained with people's souls, she asked for nothing in return. Or so she told herself.
The last to come before her was a blond man, of a few more years than Sylvan's fourteen. She recognized his face as handsome though it did not move her. "God has seen the work you've done on Earth and is calling you up to Heaven," he said as he offered his hand.
The river and its banks erupted with splashes and shouts.
"He's spouting papist nonsense!"
"The rapture is beginning!"
"This rascal just wants to—"
She reached out to probe his mind, but hit a block as if she were threading an eyeless needle. He must be an angel in disguise, she reasoned, because he had no human thoughts she could comprehend. If she ascended to heaven with him, she would be forever young, never a raw-skinned farm wife with a bruised jaw and half her children dead and buried.
Sylvan took his hand. He glanced at her bare feet, said "Come, I'll carry you," and gathered her in his arms. With superhuman speed, he dashed through the river and started up the mountain trail before the worshippers could block his way. The crowd surged forth behind him, yelling threats and prayers.
"Where are we going?" She clung to him as the dense summer-green branches scraped her limbs.
"We'll…ascend from high on the mountain."
Perspiration bloomed on his forehead and his pace lagged, seeming more human than angelic. Their distance from the mob waned, and suddenly she realized she most feared what would happen if the followers did not overtake them.
"Wait, please, put me down! I—"
"Almost there!"
At the far end of a clearing, a swirling disc of fog hung in the air.
"What is that? Where are you taking me?" She tried to pry herself loose, to no avail. The man did not answer as he threw them both into the vortex.
The vast tapestry of stars was unlike any heaven she'd imagined. And at the moment she and the strange man rushed through nothingness towards a pinprick of light, she knew she had been deceived.