Aziraphale sat on the damp grass under the pale moonlight, keeping watch over the werewolf territory. A well-worn book rested in his lap, though his gaze lingered on the shadows stretching across the night. The chill wind whispered through the swaying grass, tugging at the edges of his coat, while a weathered stone path wound its way toward the silhouette of an abandoned church.

He sighed softly, his ears twitching at the faint rustle of leaves carried by the breeze. These were the moments when the world felt still—peaceful, yet achingly lonely.