We, God

A man who reads people in their handwriting has spent his life keeping the gift small. Then a dying woman presses a key into his hand — and the small thing turns enormous.

There is a book that should not exist. And it does: surfacing across seven hundred years — in a third-century codex, in a page that should have burned at Dresden, in a margin note no scholar can explain — each time in the same unmistakable voice.