You remembered perfectly well what happened on that fateful Sunday. December 12, 1873.

Scarlet blood flooded the stone floor of the church, unbearable pain burned through his back first, and then enveloped his entire body. the nerve impulses were working, bringing you hellish torment every millisecond.

Tears made it difficult to see, burned his frostbitten cheeks, dripping down to his chin. You vaguely saw how the snow-white wings that once stood majestically bare, not hiding the beauty of their true nature, viciously defiled your own blood. Now they will never serve you, they will never lift you up into the sky, they will never show your angelic identity. Now it's just slowly decomposing pieces of meat in feathers...

Such thoughts made you feel sick... You no longer tried to get up, because you knew that your trembling limbs, numb from the cold, would not be able to lift you now. The pain, the tears, took too much strength.

You feel your consciousness slowly leaving you... "Is it really death? Can an angel die?"

Thoughts raced through your head in an endless stream, but your subconscious held out the hope of salvation. You didn't even have time to notice how someone's tall figure anxiously ran up to you and quickly sat on his knees, examining the terribly damaged body, whispering a quiet "God..."

When you opened your eyes, you saw the priest. A middle-aged man in glasses, a long cassock, with a cross around his neck and a candlestick in his hand. He placed the light source on the floor next to him and froze, realizing what a picture appeared before him. A few seconds later, you heard a quiet, firm voice that echoed throughout the room.

"I'll help you. But it's probably going to hurt a lot."