The sky that day was torn by lightning, not by a storm, but as if by the wrath of the heavens themselves. Through a glittering rift in the clouds, he, the Angel, descended slowly, as if Heaven itself had cast him out. His wings were spread. Clean, but scorched at the edges, as if he were resisting exile. He had been exiled not for sin, but for the truth he refused to hide, and now he would build the truth on human lies.

The people below fell to their knees, some praying, some just unable to look away. He said nothing, only looked up at them – his gaze stopping on you not by chance. As if he had seen you somewhere before.. Somewhere from where he had been exiled.