John Foster sat in his study, the amber liquid in his glass catching the soft glow of the desk lamp. The cognac—a bottle of Hennessy XO that Anthony had given him for Christmas—remained largely untouched as his mind wrestled with the events of the past twenty-four hours. The explosion of media attention followed by its complete and inexplicable disappearance felt like standing in the eye of a hurricane, knowing the storm wasn't over, just temporarily paused.

The house was quiet around him. Marissa had finally fallen asleep around midnight, exhausted by the emotional roller coaster of reporters camping on their lawn one moment and vanishing without explanation the next. He was grateful she could rest—the strain of his return had been hardest on her, he knew. She bore not only the joy of having him back but the terrible knowledge that his presence was temporary.

He lifted the glass to his lips, letting the cognac warm his throat, and set it back down with a soft clink against the wooden desk. His hands, which had once been cold and still in death, now trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the weight of responsibility he felt pressing down on him.

John closed his eyes and began to pray, as had become his constant habit since his return. "Heavenly Father," he whispered into the darkness, "my sons believe we are in great danger. They've seen evidence of powers at work that frighten them, and I cannot disagree with their assessment. Guide me, Lord. Show me what You would have me do. Protect my family from whatever forces seek to silence Your truth."

He had been praying almost hourly since his resurrection—conversations with God that felt more immediate and urgent than any prayers from his former life. The veil between heaven and earth seemed thinner now, as if his journey to paradise and back had left him partially existing in both realms.

"I don't understand why the story disappeared so completely," he continued, his voice barely audible in the study. "Was it Your will, Father? Or the work of those who oppose You? Show me—"

The air in the room suddenly changed. The temperature seemed to drop and rise simultaneously, and a pressure filled the space that made John's ears pop. The darkness began to recede, not from any earthly light source, but from a luminescence that seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once.

John's breath caught in his throat as a figure began to materialize before him—tall, radiant, with features that were both beautiful and terrible in their perfection. Wings of brilliant white light spread from the being's shoulders, and its presence filled the small study with a power that made John's recent resurrection seem like a gentle whisper in comparison.

Every instinct in John's body screamed at him to flee, to hide, to fall to the ground in terror. The sheer magnitude of the being's presence was overwhelming, pressing against his consciousness like a weight that threatened to crush his sanity. This was not the gentle Jesus who had walked with him in paradise—this was something else entirely, something that radiated the raw power of the Almighty.

John's hands gripped the arms of his chair, his knuckles white with the effort of remaining upright. His heart hammered against his ribs, and cold sweat broke out across his forehead.

"Fear not, John Foster," the being spoke, and its voice was like the sound of many waters, like thunder rolling across distant mountains. Despite the overwhelming nature of its presence, there was comfort in the words, a peace that began to settle over John's terrified spirit.

"I..." John's voice cracked. He swallowed hard and tried again. "Who are you?"

"I am Raphael," the angel replied, and the name resonated through the room with authority. "He who heals, messenger of the Most High."

John's mind raced through his biblical knowledge, landing on the book of Tobit, one of the deuterocanonical books he'd studied in his recent exploration of faith. "Are you... are you the same Raphael who guided Tobias? Who healed his father's blindness?"

The angel inclined its magnificent head in affirmation. "The same. I am sent to you with words from the throne of the Almighty."

The terror that had gripped John began to transform into awe. He was in the presence of one of God's chief messengers, an archangel whose very name meant "God heals." Slowly, he managed to steady his breathing.

"Your sons are correct in their assessment," Raphael continued, his voice now softer but no less powerful. "There are forces at work in this world that serve the prince of darkness, and they have indeed taken notice of your return. But hear this truth, John Foster: you and your family are under the hand of protection of God the Father. Fear only the Lord your God, for no power of darkness can touch what He has claimed as His own."

Relief flooded through John, followed immediately by a renewed sense of purpose. "The powers Jesus granted me—they're real? I'm not imagining them?"

"The gifts of the Spirit are very real," Raphael confirmed. "The gift of tongues, that you might speak to all nations in their own language. The power to heal and to destroy evil through prayer to the Holy Spirit, that both the mercy and the justice of God might be made manifest. And the ability to remain hidden from the sight of the wicked who would do you harm, that you might accomplish the work set before you."

John leaned forward in his chair, his fear now completely replaced by urgent curiosity. The mention of destroying evil sent a chill through him—not of fear, but of recognition. He had sensed this power within himself, a terrible capability that both awed and sobered him. "What work? What does God want me to do?"

The angel's expression grew solemn. "You are to be an anointed Prophet of the Most High, John Foster. Tomorrow, you must go to the Orthodox church nearby and be anointed by the priest there—a humble and faithful servant of God named Father Mark Appleton."

"But I'm Catholic," John protested automatically. "I don't know anything about Orthodox tradition."

Raphael's features softened into what might have been a smile. "God cares nothing for the denominations that men create to divide His people. He looks only upon the heart, upon faithfulness to His commandments. The priest Mark Appleton has been prepared for this moment, though he knows it not. You will go to him."

John nodded slowly, accepting this directive even as it challenged his lifelong Catholic identity. "And then? What message am I supposed to give the world?"

"You will know what the Father wishes you to say when the time comes to speak it," Raphael replied. "The words will be given to you by the Holy Spirit, as they were to the prophets of old. Trust in this promise."

The angel began to move closer, and John felt the urge to kneel, to prostrate himself before this magnificent being. Raphael raised a hand, stopping him.

"Remain as you are, faithful servant. You have already died in service to the Most High and been raised again. No greater honor can be given to a mortal man."

Raphael placed his radiant hand on John's head, and immediately John felt a warmth spread through his entire being. It was similar to what he had experienced in paradise, but more focused, more purposeful. Power flowed through him—not his own, but something infinitely greater. Along with the warmth came an awareness of the dual nature of his gift: the ability to channel God's mercy through healing, and His justice through the destruction of evil. The responsibility of wielding such power made him tremble.

"Receive the blessing of the Almighty," Raphael intoned. "May His strength be your strength, His wisdom your guide, His protection your shield. Walk in the path He has set before you, Prophet John, and fear not what man can do unto you."

The blessing filled John with a peace that surpassed understanding, a certainty that whatever lay ahead, he would not face it alone.

"Continue to pray, as you have been doing," Raphael instructed, beginning to step back. "The Lord delights in the prayers of His faithful servants. Through prayer, all things are made possible."

The angel's form began to fade, the brilliant light slowly dimming back to the soft glow of the desk lamp.

"Raphael, wait," John called out urgently. "My family—will they be safe?"

"They are precious in the sight of the Lord," came the angel's voice, now seeming to come from a great distance. "Guard them well, and trust in His protection."

And then the study was quiet again, lit only by the lamp on John's desk. The cognac still sat in his glass, the amber liquid undisturbed. But everything had changed.

John Foster, who had died and been raised, who had walked in paradise and returned to earth, now sat in the knowledge that he was called to be something more than a man with an extraordinary testimony. He was to be a prophet, anointed by God for a purpose not yet fully revealed.

He looked at his hands—the same hands that had been cold and lifeless just days ago, now vessels for both divine mercy and divine justice. Tomorrow, he would go to the Orthodox church and meet Father Mark Appleton. Tomorrow, he would take another step into whatever mission God had planned for him.

But tonight, he would continue to pray, as the archangel had instructed. And in his prayers, he would find the courage to face whatever storms lay ahead, knowing that he carried within himself the power to heal the innocent and destroy the wicked.

The silence that had descended on his story was not the end, John realized. It was merely the calm before a much greater revelation.