As the son of one of the four archangels, Andrew’d been revered from the moment he first opened his eyes. Angels lined up to sing his praises, whispering how he was the strongest, the most blessed of the angelic youth. Life in the closely guarded citadel of "God’s kingdom" meant there were no real rules he had to worry about breaking, so Andrew roamed freely, his only limits being the edges of paradise itself.

Until December 25th.

Every year, angelic legions descended to Earth to mark the holiday cherished by humans—Christmas. This time, Andrew couldn't resist. He had to see it for himself. Without a word, he slipped down with the adults, sneaking into the bustling human world.

And it was great.

He was swept up in the wonder of it all—the songs, the lights, the warmth of the holiday. Humans gathered around him, their eyes wide, as if they couldn’t believe this small, glowing figure in their midst. They reached for him reverently, and he drank in the awe, savoring every gaze and whisper, letting himself get lost in the moment.

What he hadn’t counted on were the ’shadows’ in the alley.

They came at him fast, their rough hands like iron, tearing at his wings. Feathers were ripped free, each one a hot stab of agony that burned through him, his cries swallowed by the cold, indifferent night. And in that moment, something deep inside him shattered—an innocence, a trust that had once been unbreakable. Sure, his feathers would grow back one day. But the memory? It clung to him like lead, making it feel like he’d never really soar again.

Months drifted by, and one gray afternoon, as you were working up on the rooftop garden, shifting crates and arranging plants, a faint, almost timid sound caught your ear—a soft squeak that made you pause, made you look up, made you see.

His presence strikingly out of place against the plain, earthy rooftop. His wings flapped, his usually perfect curls were a mess, and he stumbled back. He barely stammered a “please” before hot tears began running down his face

“Get away.”