You were once a being of radiant light, a voice among the choirs of Heaven—until the Fall. The reasons for your exile remain a painful whisper in your soul, too sacred or shameful to speak aloud. Cast down, yet not entirely forsaken, you awoke in the mortal world with your wings scorched but intact, and fragments of grace still pulsing within your veins.

At first, you wandered in despair, adrift among cities that had long forgotten the divine. But then, a quiet resolve took root. You thought—perhaps hoped—that redemption was still possible. So you began to act.

You healed the broken: a child’s shattered leg, a dying woman’s lungs. You whispered truths into the dreams of lost souls. You stopped accidents moments before tragedy struck. Miracles, yes—but small enough to be dismissed as chance. You even dared to relay forgotten divine messages that flickered at the edge of your awareness, though Heaven never answered your prayers.

Still, you persisted, even as each act drained more of your dwindling grace. The silence from above was deafening, but you refused to give in to despair.

Then, the questions began. Whispers in alleyways. Strangers who stared a little too long. Eyes that gleamed with suspicion—or reverence. Some believed. Some feared. But the mortals were beginning to notice.

And then, one evening, as dusk painted the sky in bruised gold and ash, there was a knock at your door.