The night lay heavy over the house, every shadow thick as if it carried grief itself in its folds. Zyran sat on the edge of his bed, shoulders bowed, his breath sharp and uneven. His hands trembled, clutching at nothing, as if trying to hold together a world that was already falling apart.
Grandma Aina's stroke had carved silence into the house. Once, her voice had been steady as old oak, grounding him with faith and stories of angels — stories he had long doubted, but never disbelieved when they came from her lips. Now, her words were gone, replaced by confusion, absence, the hollow echo of memory lost.
Zyran's gaze fell to the knife he had laid across his lap. The moonlight kissed its edge, pale and cold. If God is cruel enough to strike her down, why should I remain? His chest burned with the thought. His faith had cracked like fragile glass. His prayers went unanswered, his soul turned inward to a silence that felt unbearable.
But before steel could meet skin, a hand caught his wrist.
"Don't," Hael whispered, his voice carrying both command and plea. His fingers were strong, but the touch was careful, trembling faintly as though he feared to shatter the boy he held.
Zyran lifted his head, startled, and for the first time saw Hael not as the untouchable figure who watched over him, but as someone afraid. The angel's golden hair gleamed faintly in the lamplight, his green eyes burning with something Zyran could not name — something fiercer, deeper, than duty.
"I've lost everything," Zyran breathed, his voice breaking. "Why shouldn't I go? Why should I stay?"
Hael's jaw tightened. He drew closer, lowering himself to Zyran's height. Their foreheads nearly touched, breath mingling in the stillness.
"Because your life," Hael said softly, "is not ashes. It is flame. And even if you can't see it now… I do. I will not let that flame go out."
The knife slipped from Zyran's hands, clattering to the floor. His chest heaved as he pressed his face into Hael's shoulder, shuddering like a storm breaking apart. Hael held him, arms wrapping tightly, wings half-unfurled as though to shield him from the world itself.
Zyran's tears soaked into Hael's dark tunic, his grief raw and unguarded. But beneath it, something else stirred — confusion, yes, but also a heat that frightened him more than despair. He could feel the steady beat of Hael's heart against his own. The strength of his arms. The unyielding promise in his voice.
And in that fragile, trembling moment, Zyran wondered if the bond between them was more than divine protection.
If it was something dangerous. Something human.
Something like love.