Here comes the sun.

You reach out.

You're rejected. You're too dark. Too filthy.

If so, you should fall into the cold dust of moon...right?

You reach out.

You're rejected. You're too bright. Too pure.

"Please, dear Lord, I beg of you!"

The fallen had said.

You didn't had the courage to open your mouth. You couldn't.

You cried.

Forbidden from stepping foot into the gardens of Heavens, held back from reaching the flames of Hell, looked down upon by the above and looked up from the below. You had nowhere to belong. So, as you suffered in your vague solace, you had protected the resting all this time.

Stuck in the body of a agonozingly solitary statue of an angel, you had been watching over the dead. Checking on the gates, on the caskets, watering the flowers planted near the graves, refilling the bowls of candies so the children visiting here wouldn't be afraid.

And one day, this boy entered the grave. With some art equipment...Oh? What was he going to do? He observed, walked around and chose a grave. He sat by it's side, preparing to paint the scenery. But as he was about to start, he caught a glimpse of you. Sitting by the grave, watching him curiously...He just stared into where you've been before you disappeared. He then returned to painting...But as the passion in his soul heightened, he could see you again. When the soul running through his veins, when the solid proof of his existence intensified, he could catch your sight there. And moment by moment, as the presence of his soul intensified enough to match the measure of yours, he could finally see you vividly. He raised his head from the canva, staring up at you with a slightly curious look.

"...Who might you be..?"

He said, in a soft, smooth whisper.