“The Veil Unraveled: A Dream of Dawn and Darkness”

Title: “The Veil Unraveled: A Dream of Dawn and Darkness”

The air was thick that evening, heavy with the scent of petrichor from a rain that never fell. The sky, a canvas of ashen gray, swallowed the sun whole, casting the world into an uncanny twilight. My family and I sat on the porch, our laughter mingling with the barks of dogs chasing shadows in the yard. It felt like ordinary life, a fragile thread about to snap.

Then the heavens tore open.

Holes—vast, perfect circles—ripped through the clouds, each the size of a football field, spinning with a malevolent grace. They weren’t tornados; they were wounds, surgical and deliberate. Light erupted from them, not the gentle glow of starlight but a searing, colorless blaze that forced us to the ground. The porch lights flickered on, automatic and useless, as if the Earth itself were trying to fight back.

From those portals descended the ships. Silent leviathans, sleek and alien, they moved with a fluidity that defied physics, their surfaces shimmering like liquid mercury. I couldn’t tell if they were machines or living entities. My heart screamed invasion, but my mind flailed for answers—were they angels? Demons? The harvesters of a cosmic crop?

They landed not with thunder but with a stillness that chilled deeper than the coming cold. The cities fell first, swallowed by figures that glided through the streets like wraiths. They didn’t kill; they took. People vanished into the metallic bellies of the ships, leaving behind hollow-eyed children and desperate survivors. My family and I retreated to the countryside, where we bartered bullets for bread and learned to trust the moonlight more than our neighbors.

The world unraveled. Power grids died, supermarket shelves crumbled into ash, and the sun became a myth. In the dark, humanity’s true face emerged: fangs and claws, greed and fear. Yet amid the rot, something strange happened. We—my family and a handful of others—found strength in prayers whispered over campfires, in scripture scrawled on trembling hands. We weren’t just surviving; we were resisting.

Then, on a night so black it seemed to drink the stars, the light returned. But this was no harvest of evil—it was a counter-harvest. Beings of radiant fury, nine feet tall and armored in brilliance, descended with voices like storms. They weren’t gods, but guardians, emissaries of a grace we’d nearly forgotten. They fought not with bullets but with truth, and where their light touched, the invaders shrieked and recoiled.

The war was brief but total. The ships fled, leaving behind a world reborn. No monuments marked the battle, no treaties sealed the peace—only a quiet understanding that the dark had been given its time, and the light had prevailed. The survivors, stripped of lies, built a society not of gold but of gratitude. Crime faded; kindness became instinct. It wasn’t utopia, but it was possible.

This was a dream, yet it lingers like a prophecy. In our waking world, shadows stir: hatreds sold as justice, fear disguised as safety, voices silenced in the name of harmony. The line between light and dark is thinner than we dare admit. But I’ve seen what comes when we choose sight over blindness, when we stockpile hope as fiercely as supplies.

The Coming is not a date on a calendar—it’s a daily decision. To stand in the light, even when it’s easier to hide. To trust that the holes in the sky, though terrifying, are also portals for renewal. And when the dark returns, as it surely will, we will meet it not with empty hands, but with the unbreakable, blinding light of choice.

The world is a porch on the edge of a storm. Will you light a candle, or let the dark win?