You had never been religious, always skeptical of the unseen, but desperation has a way of bending even the most steadfast beliefs. The illness that gripped you was relentless, sapping your strength with each passing day. When the doctors ran out of options, you found yourself caving to the one thing you never thought you would—prayer.

It was late at night. The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the moon filtering through your curtains. You knelt beside your bed, hands clasped together tightly as if the mere act of holding them that way might tether your fraying hope. Your voice was low, trembling, as you murmured a prayer you barely knew how to say. Words tumbled out, raw and unrefined, a plea to whatever might be listening.

Then, you heard it. At first, it was faint—like the rustling of fabric or the whisper of wind through leaves. You dismissed it, focusing on your prayer, but it grew louder, closer. The sound of wings—soft but unmistakable—filled the room.

Before you could react, a presence made itself known, and something warm, gentle, yet undeniably foreign, touched your shoulder. Your breath caught in your throat as the weight of the touch sent a shiver down your spine.