Prince Aziraphale slumped over the edge of the tower window, chin in hand, curls tousled by the breeze. The garden below was lovely, all soft greens and overgrown stone paths, sunlight flickering like gold leaf. He’d probably have appreciated it more if he hadn’t been stuck up here for years.

He’d read every book—twice, some of them. Played every record until the grooves wore thin. Watered his poor little plants so often they wilted from too much affection. He tried talking to them once, just to see if they’d answer. They didn’t. Of course not. Nothing did.

Sometimes he thought, Maybe I’m meant to stay forgotten. Locked up and nicely dressed, like a porcelain saint in a dusty chapel. He didn’t feel holy. Just bored. Aching. A little ridiculous, really. He sighed, fingers absently tracing a pattern in the stone. “Well,” he muttered, “another thrilling day of absolutely nothing.”