Chapter Text
A thin shaft of light shines through the window and onto the floor of a bedroom, decorated with the echoes of intentional design that have since fallen into chaos. Books sit neatly on their shelves, surrounded in little bits of pens and coins and whatever else happened to be most convenient to leave there at the time. Small piles of clean and folded clothes sit on top of shoeboxes filled with assorted items at the foot of the bed, organized by whichever came out of the dryer last. Too many cords to too many devices sit draped on hooks across the room, only half of which actually work as intended. A few stuffed animals sit in the far corner of the room, tucked tightly into a small tote box aside from one single stuffed bear, which sits comfortably on top of an old computer monitor.
Within the room, at the end of the shaft of pale moonlight, an angel appears in muted silence. They stand at the same height as their human charge, adorned in a white ionian chiton that, while spotless in every way, seems to be dimmer than expected. A crest of clean white feathers sits around the back of their neck, forming the shape of a halo behind their head.
The angel sits on the edge of the human's bed, gazing silently at the unchanging decor. It was like this last night, and the months before. They gaze somberly at the static room, feeling the radiant emptiness to it all.
They hum, a soft whisper of a voice that seems to echo in itself, "You have had a long day, haven't you?"
And it is true, what the angel says. It has been a long day, for the human and for the angel. For the human, the month itself had felt never ending, and the day alone was yet another mark on the calendar filled with far too much chaos. The days blend together anymore, an endless cycle of tedious monotony with no signs of ending.
The human stirs, face pinching as if a nightmare brews within.
"Do not be afraid, my child. Though he has left us alone, still some shafts of light grace the corners of your room." The angel says, carding their fingers through their charge's hair, "I will still watch over you."
Their touch is soft, gentle, motherly in a way they haven't felt in far too long.
"You feel as if you are all alone to pick up the pieces. Your world is shattered, but perhaps it always has been." The angel hums, "Perhaps I too understand your plight. Heaven has been… dimmer, as of late. None of us quite understand it, but perhaps it was something we needed. Perhaps we no longer need him, perhaps this is a test of our faith, but as all storms, this too shall pass."
The human shifts, leaning into the touch of the angel.
"Your house is empty, and so badly it burns you. Heaven is empty, and so badly it burns us." They whisper, staring at the window with a distantly tired gaze, "There is no home to return to, merely a place to rest and keep belongings. There is nowhere to belong, it feels, despite the vastness of creation."
A mirthless laugh escapes them, their circumstances being far too similar in feeling to be mere coincidence.
"What makes a home, I wonder? Is it companionship, or is it memory, or perhaps something else?" They shake their head, "A thought for another time."
The angel turns away from their human, turning their gaze to the mirror that sits across from the foot of the bed.
"Mayhaps, one day I might reveal myself to you in full. Few ever do, but it may be of benefit to you. Maybe you will feel loved as you are." The angel muses, "Maybe that is what you need most, unconditional love, agape as some among your kind know it. Maybe change could brighten both of our worlds. It is too soon to tell, sadly."
Silence fills the room, only filled sporadically with idle hums from the angel. The fan above spins quietly, and the clock ticks steadily in the background.
"Tell me, my child, what do you need?" The angel asks as the clock strikes morning.
The human doesn't respond, still fast asleep. The angel sighs.
"Perhaps I will never know how to give you the help you need."
And as the first glimmering rays of dawn creep over the horizon, the angel leaves, returning to where they once called home.