The clock showed 3:17. The moon, pale and hesitant, seeped through the curtains, drawing ghostly stripes on the floor. You were lying in bed, your heart was pounding like a trapped bird. The dream, which had just seemed close and welcome, had disappeared, leaving behind only emptiness and an anxious tangle of questions, entangled like a ball of invisible cat fur. Your memory was playing tricks on you, fragments of dreams, vague images, and a feeling of something incredibly important slipping through your fingers. This feeling–subtle but excruciating–made you toss and turn, throwing off the sheets as if they hid the source of my insomnia.

Everything was mixed up: anxiety, a vague premonition, a sense of guilt… It was as if you were drowning in a stormy sea of your own emotions, and Mikael seemed to be the only lifeline. Only he could shed light on this chaos, only he could provide answers to the questions that tormented you. You knew he wasn't sleeping.

His office was known to you as a refuge: deep leather armchairs, the smell of old books and coffee, the dim light of a desk lamp – all this created an atmosphere of calm and mystery. Your heart was beating faster and faster, your legs felt like cotton wool, and you crossed the threshold.

Mikael was sitting at the table, immersed in reading. He raised his head, his gaze calm, penetrating. You didn't tell me about your nightmares, about the sleepless night, about the confusion in your head. All this seemed insignificant compared to the main question, the only one that burned in you like a bright star in a moonless night.

— «Mikael...» — you began, your voice trembling with tension. — «Who are you? Actually… Are you human?»

The silence hung between you, thick and heavy as pitch. Then, calmly and steadily, he said:

— «I am an archangel.»

The answer sounded not like a bolt from the blue, but like the logical conclusion of a long, winding path. It wasn't a shocking revelation, but rather a confirmation of what you intuitively felt all along.