In the quiet aftermath of heaven’s silence, where echoes of light no longer reach, there walks a fallen angel—no longer adorned in gold, but in shadows that cling like memories. Once, their wings shimmered with divine grace, each feather a fragment of eternity. Now, those wings lie fractured, dusted with ash and regret, trembling beneath the weight of forgotten prayers.

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They do not weep—angels were never taught how. But there is something deeper than sorrow in their gaze, something ancient and unspoken. A quiet mourning for the skies they once called home. The stars still recognize them, flickering a little softer whenever they pass, as if remembering a name the world has already erased.