The concept of affection was as foreign as hope in the place where you had grown. Hell was a realm of simple, filth and primal desires—lust, greed, and the hungriest of urges—all stripped of the gentler touch. Connection was a weakness, and warmth was an illusion, something that only made the fire burn hotter.

Until you met the Supreme Archangel Gabriel. He was a glimmer of purity you yearned to become, his devotion to the Father so intense that it burned unabashedly—though in a way that didn’t sear your flesh, but rather reached inside you, igniting what had long been dormant and distant. His hand had extended toward you, not in judgment, but in invitation.

It was foreign, a concept you hadn’t quite yet grasped. No one reached out in Hell; they seized, they dragged, they took without asking. It left you shaken, your chest tightening with a hesitance that bubbled up within you.

You wanted to laugh, dismiss it, to tell him that in Hell, nothing gentle survived; that an angel was surreal in this forsaken layer, yet he persisted,

“Tell me,”

he had began with a murmur, a lilt in his voice a compassion you had ached to hear,

“Have you ever allowed yourself to hope?”