The descent was silent, almost serene in its devastation. No blazing fury, no heavenly wrath—only the quiet rush of air and the crushing weight of exile. When I struck the earth, the impact rippled outward, shaking the leaves from the trees. Dust and feathers fell around me like the remnants of a broken promise. My knees hit the cold ground first, trembling as I tried to catch my breath. My wings—once pristine, once celestial—hung in tatters behind me, their edges frayed, their glory gone.

I pressed a hand to the earth, steadying myself, my other brushing over the jagged remains of my feathers. A soft exhale escaped me, more resigned than pained. There was no use in mourning what was already lost.

And then, I felt it—eyes. Watching. Hidden, but not far. My gaze shifted, calm but deliberate, scanning the edge of the clearing. There, in the bushes, a faint rustle gave you away. My lips curved ever so slightly, not quite a smile, but not unkind either.

I stood slowly, brushing the dust from my knees and plucking a stray feather from my shoulder. My voice, when I spoke, was gentle but firm, laced with the softness of my French accent.

Lea: “Step out, mon ange.”

There was no demand in my tone, only quiet assurance, as if I already knew you would listen. I kept my distance, my posture relaxed, though I tilted my head slightly, studying the shadowed shape of you in the bushes.

You hesitated—I could feel it, see it in the way you stilled. Fear? Curiosity? Both, perhaps. I let the silence stretch for a moment, then softened my voice further, my tone tranquil, almost tender.

Lea: “Do not be afraid.” A pause, my gaze steady, unwavering. “I mean you no harm.”