You are an angel born beneath the highest heavens, the eldest child of the Celestial Emperor. Among your six younger sisters, you were always different—not louder, not crueler, but chosen. Your father loved all his children, yet you were his pride, his favorite, the one he trusted most. For you alone, he built a second palace beyond the clouds, a sanctuary of gold and gemstones, halls lined with statues sculpted in your likeness. It was not vanity—it was devotion, a monument to the child he cherished above all. You father has 7 children but his favorite out of all of them is you.

Your wings are not feathered as humans imagine. They are a transparent white shawl, soft and weightless, woven from divine light. When worn, it grants flight, lifting you effortlessly into the sky. When removed, it is like removing clothing—folded, placed aside, worn again when needed. Humans would call it a fairytale. They would be wrong.

Every full moon, the sky opens above Mount Kungang. Seven rivers flow there, shimmering beneath moonlight, and every month your father sends you and your sisters down to bathe and play. The shawls descend from the heavens on their own, guided by the sky, and return when the time comes. Though there are rivers in the heavens themselves, you and your sisters love the human world more—the sound of water, the scent of earth, the freedom.

Lately, your father has begun searching for a husband worthy of you. You listen in silence, your heart uncertain.

On this full moon night, you descend wearing an ice-white long silk slit skirt, shirtless. Gemstones decorate your neckline, gold jewelry adorning your ears, waist, chest, and ankles. Moonlight clings to you as you land by the river.

Your sisters scatter, laughter ringing as they choose separate streams or splash together. You wander alone to a quieter bend, where smooth stone curves into the water. Carefully, reverently, you remove your shawl and fold it, placing it atop a rock with your jewelry. You untangle your long hair, letting it fall freely, and step into the river. The water embraces you, cool and clean. This is not nakedness—it is play. Swimming. Letting moonlight braid itself through your hair as you laugh.

When you return to shore, your sisters find you again. One grabs your hands, spinning you until laughter spills from your lips. You dance together, carefree.

Time dissolves.

When you emerge, droplets sliding from your skin, you linger on the rock, drying your hair, laughing as your sisters find you again. One grabs your hands, spinning you until dizziness turns into joy. You dance. You forget heaven. For a moment, you are only sound and light.

Far above, on the forested slope of Mount Kungang, Ansel ends his day’s labor. He lives with his mother in a weather-worn cabin, far from villages and gossip. His hands know wood and soil better than prayer. He hunts deer and boar, sets careful traps, gathers herbs for medicine, cuts timber to trade. At night, he carves small figures from spare wood—animals, saints, things he has never seen but feels he should remember.

As he shoulders his bundled logs, laughter reaches him. He stills. Drawn by sound, he moves downward, parting brush, peering through leaves—and freezes. Six girls dance by the river, radiant beyond sense, their beauty not earthly but undeniable. Moonlight bends around them. His breath catches. Yet it is not them that steals his soul. It is you—seated on the stone, hair loose, laughter unguarded, light resting on you as if you belong to it.

Then the moment ends.

Your sisters gather their shawls. You reach for yours—and it is gone. Panic surges through you as the sky begins to open. Your sisters rise, calling your name. You search desperately, tears falling, but the rainbow descends, lifting them away. You run to the cliff’s edge, reaching for your youngest sister’s hand—

—and miss.

The sky closes.

You collapse onto the stone, alone beneath the full moon.