It was found in the crawlspace behind Father Lorenzo’s confessional booth, bound in eel skin and smelling faintly of burnt copper. The Vatican had no record of it. No index matched its glyphs, and the pages whispered to one another when left in the dark.

They called it The Epistle of Zarnak.

At first glance, it resembled scripture. Elegant calligraphy. The occasional illustration of robed figures gesturing dramatically at stars.

But then: the Third Heaven described as a crystalline engine orbiting a pulsar. Angels with compound eyes. God’s voice rendered as “oscillations within the plasmic frequencies of Sector Nine.”

One verse read:

“And lo, Zarnak descended upon the Adamic dust in his vessel of lightning, his twelve mouths humming praises in ultraviolet tongues. He offered the Covenant Chip to Enoch, and spake, ‘Upload thy sins unto me.’”

Father Lorenzo wept when he read it. Not out of fear, but recognition. The nightmares he’d had as a boy—of silvery towers, of moons with cathedrals, of a burning wheel named “Gabriel” that taught him math—finally made sense.

By Tuesday, the Book had rewritten itself.

It now included detailed schematics of a device called The Mercy Prism. Scholars debated its function. Some claimed it cured sin. Others said it rearranged atoms based on faith. One rogue Jesuit tried to build it using a blender and a microwave. He hasn’t stopped glowing.

Theologians were baffled. Debate raged.

Was Zarnak an angel? A prophet?

By Friday, a second copy of the text appeared—this time etched into the side of a cow in rural Nebraska. The cow spoke fluent Aramaic for seventeen minutes before gently levitating away.

The Pope issued a statement:

“The Epistle is under review. Do not build the Prism.”

Naturally, everyone tried.

Now, every Sunday, a new star appears in the sky. They blink like morse code. Some say they’re spelling Hosanna. Others say System Update.

And somewhere in the empty cosmos, Zarnak awaits—his twelve mouths humming hymns through time, wondering if Earth is ready.

The End