The world did not shatter.
That, perhaps, was the cruelest part.
After the truth revealed itself—after it settled into the bones of reality like an accepted law—the city continued. Buses ran late. People argued over groceries. The sky changed color as it always had. There were no signs announcing that something irreversible had occurred.
But everything felt… denser.
Zyrán noticed it in the way mornings arrived heavier, as if night had taken longer to release its grip. Conversations dragged. Silence lingered too long after words ended. The world seemed to hesitate before completing simple motions, like it was recalculating the cost of continuation.
Hael felt it differently.
He felt it in his body.
At first, it was fatigue—an exhaustion that no amount of stillness seemed to cure. He woke unrested, limbs heavy, breath shallow as though air itself had grown thicker. Standing required intention now. Walking demanded attention.
He said nothing.
Angels had endured worse.
But this was not endurance.
This was limitation.
The first time it frightened him was in the kitchen.
Hael reached for a cup and missed. Not by much—just enough for porcelain to slip, strike the floor, and shatter. The sound echoed sharply, too loud in the quiet room.
Zyrán turned instantly. "Hael?"
Hael steadied himself against the counter. The floor felt farther away than it should have been.
"I'm fine," he said automatically.
The lie tasted wrong.
Zyrán crossed the room and stopped short, studying him. "You're pale."
"I don't—" Hael stopped. He pressed a hand to his chest. His heartbeat was uneven. Loud. Insistent.
Human.
Zyrán reached out and placed the back of his fingers against Hael's cheek.
Hael flinched.
Not from pain.
From heat.
"You're burning," Zyrán said quietly.
The word unsettled Hael more than it should have. Burning had always meant purification. Judgment. Punishment.
This was none of those.
"I think," Hael said slowly, choosing honesty now that evasion no longer served, "this body is beginning to insist."
Zyrán swallowed. "Insist on what?"
"On being counted."
They moved to the couch. Zyrán wrapped Hael in blankets without asking permission, his movements careful but sure—human care learned through loss. Hael let himself be guided, the surrender unfamiliar and frightening.
"I chose this," Hael said, more to himself than to Zyrán.
Zyrán knelt in front of him. "And choosing doesn't make it painless."
Hael's hands trembled. "I knew I would age. I did not know I would fear."
Zyrán's expression softened. "Fear comes with attachment."
Hael met his eyes. "Then I am fully attached."
The world outside responded quietly.
Sirens stalled mid-note. Lights flickered—not failing, but adjusting. Somewhere nearby, someone stumbled and caught themselves. Elsewhere, a long-standing argument ended not in resolution, but exhaustion.
The convergence was no longer theoretical.
It had entered flesh.
Later, as dusk fell, Hael drifted in and out of sleep, fever tugging at him with images that did not belong to one lifetime. Wings folding into bone. Light compacting into skin. Eternity compressing into moments that could be lost.
When he woke, Zyrán was still there.
"You stayed," Hael murmured.
Zyrán brushed hair back from Hael's forehead. "I wasn't going anywhere."
Hael's voice faltered. "One day, I won't wake up as I am now. I'll wake slower. Weaker. I'll forget things."
Zyrán leaned closer. "Then I'll remember them for you."
The simple certainty undid him.
Outside, the city breathed—strained, alive, adjusting to a reality that no longer allowed distance between cause and consequence.
Hael closed his eyes again, fear threading through him—not of pain, not of death, but of time. Of failing Zyrán not through absence, but through diminishment.
And still—
When Zyrán's hand tightened around his—
Hael understood.
The truth had passed from idea into matter.
From balance into body.
This was the cost of staying.
And despite the fear, despite the ache settling into his bones, despite the knowledge that nothing would ever be weightless again—
Hael chose it.
Again.