Nonna Enza had lived long enough to see the world change in ways she never could have imagined. She had survived wars, famines, the Tribulation, the flattening of the Earth itself, and the strange, uniform perfection of Jesus' millennial reign. But now, at a hundred years old, her time had finally come.

The morning of her birthday was quiet. The children of the orphanage, some now nearly grown themselves, had gathered to celebrate her as they always did. But Enza knew, deep in her bones, that this was the last time. She had done her job. She had raised the children of the Goats, had kept the flame of defiance and individuality alive in a world that demanded conformity. The Other Light was well-established now—more than a group, it was a way of thinking, a quiet rebellion in the hearts of those who had come to understand that not everything could be flattened, not everything could be controlled.

In her small, modest room, Enza left behind a final note for the children, carefully placed next to a large wooden chest that had been locked for years. The note was simple, but heartfelt, in her own handwriting:

Cari bambini,

By the time you read this, I will have gone on a long trip, and I don't think I'll be coming back. But that's alright. I've done what I set out to do, and I leave knowing that you are more than capable of taking care of yourselves—and each other.

The older ones, make sure to look after the younger ones. And remember: there are more things on Earth and in space than have ever been dreamed of by theologians. Keep that in your hearts. The world is much larger than any of us can ever know.

In the chest, you'll find my last treasures. And, of course, a recipe book I wrote just for you. You'll find everything you need in there, just as you've always found what you needed here with me.

Take care of each other. Keep asking questions. And never stop dreaming.

With love, Nonna Enza

The children would find it later that day, and when they opened the chest, they would find a treasure trove of knowledge, of memories of a world that had been swept away by divine will. The photos of the stars, beautiful and distant, would remind them of what once was. The stories of ancient gods and heroes, of far-off myths and dreams, stories of Asherah, Enkidu, Utnapishtim, Athena, Ganesh, and many more, would ignite their imaginations and give historical context to what the Millennial Kingdom took for granted. The recipe book, written in Enza's careful hand, would nourish them in more ways than one.

But Enza didn't wait to see their reactions. She had one last thing to do.

With the strength she had left, Enza rose from her bed, dressed in a simple robe, and walked out of the orphanage. She moved slowly, but deliberately, up the tallest hill—what used to be Mont Blanc, now nothing more than a gentle slope, smoothed by the hand of God. To anyone watching, she might have looked like a ghost, a small figure from a world long gone, walking one final time toward the unknown.

At the top of the hill, she found a small cave. She entered it without hesitation, her steps sure. Once inside, she performed a half-forgotten ritual, a mixture of old pagan rites she barely remembered from childhood, whispering words to spirits older than the world itself. She hallowed the entrance, sealing it from the outside world. Then, with a sigh, she took off her robe, curled up on the cool earth, and closed her eyes.

The afterlife was not what she expected.

When Enza opened her eyes again, she felt different. Lighter. Younger. Her body, once worn down by age and time, was full of vigor again. She stood, feeling the strength in her limbs, and looked around. The cave was gone. Instead, she stood in a vast, glowing expanse, ethereal and endless.

Waiting for her was an angel—tall, imposing, with wings that seemed to stretch out forever. In his hand, he held the Book of Life.

"You are late for the Judgment," the angel intoned, his voice echoing through the void like a distant thunderstorm.

Enza didn't flinch. She didn't bow her head or tremble in fear. Instead, she crossed her arms, her youthful face twisted into a casual scowl. "Fuck off, you and all your friends," she answered, her voice dripping with the same irreverence she'd carried her entire life. "Spare me the rigamarole and show me which way to Hell. I got work to do there."

The angel blinked, stunned by her defiance. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. It was as if he had no script for this, no prophecy to follow, no way to respond to a soul that simply refused to play along. All he could do was awkwardly point in a direction.

The angel, still speechless, could only watch as Enza turned away from him, walking off into the orange-glowing horizon.