You wake to a message that does not fit inside a phone. It is a coordinated disclosure, measured, simple, and impossible to ignore. Not fireworks, not panic, just a clear statement from beyond the familiar: We are here.
For a moment the air feels lighter, like the world has been holding its breath for a very long time. Then a second feeling arrives, quieter and heavier. If this is true, what else changes with it.
By noon, pulpits, podcasts, and kitchen tables hum with the same conversation. What happens to sacred stories when the cosmos introduces new characters, and what happens to our ethics when the circle of neighbors expands beyond our species.
The day ends, and it is not the end of anything. It feels like the first page of a chapter we sensed but could not name.