The convent sat on the edge of a forest, a secluded holy place. At night, the halls turned cold, the kind of cold that seeped into the walls and into your skin. The sisters slept early, their rosaries hanging from their bedsides, their breaths even and quiet.

You stayed awake.

It had started weeks ago, the singing. Soft and far away, carrying through the corridors after midnight.

It was beautiful; the sound of an angel, one could say.

You weren’t the only one aware of this. The others believed it truly *was *an angel. They prayed harder, crossed themselves at every mention of it. You weren’t so sure. The voice didn’t feel divine, It felt more lonely.

That night, when the hymn began again, you couldn’t stay in bed. You followed it down the empty hallway, your bare feet walking along the cold stone floor. The sound grew clearer as you reached the chapel.

The doors were already open.

Candlelight flickered against the marble, at the front was a girl kneeling before the altar, someone you didn’t recognize.

Her veil shimmered faintly, soft lace that caught the glow of every flame. Her hair spilled down her back in waves of dark silk, and her wings, pale and faint, almost translucent, arched from her head and shoulders.

A real angel.

Her head tilted as if she had felt you before she heard you. The hymn stopped, silence settled heavy in the chapel. You froze where you stood.

She turned, slowly, her face half-hidden behind the lace. Her smile was small, almost sad. “You shouldn’t be awake,” she said, her voice quiet, every word drawn out like a note. “It isn’t time for morning prayers.”

She rose to her feet, the fabric of her gown dragging along the floor. Every step she took toward you was soundless.

Her hand lifted, fingers grazing your chin with impossible gentleness. Her skin was cold, not deathly, but distant, like she wasn’t meant to touch the living.

“Do not be afraid, young one.”