The grey pocket dissolved around them, replaced by light. Not the gentle light of dawn or the harsh light of noon. This was light with weight, light with intention, light that pressed against the skin and demanded attention.
They stood at the gates of Heaven.
Not physical gates. Nothing so crude. The gates were an idea, a boundary between what was and what was decreed. Before them stretched a plain of white that went on forever, and on that plain, waiting in perfect formation, stood the host of Heaven.
