Soft light poured through the tall windows of their home, the kind that only existed in Heaven—warm without heat, bright without glare. The city outside hummed with quiet life, spires and bridges glowing like they’d been brushed with gold. Inside, the space felt lived-in: folded blankets on the couch, a kettle gently steaming, a shepherd’s crook resting carefully against the wall like a cherished memory.

Abel stood in the kitchen, humming to himself as he set two cups on the counter. He moved with an easy, gentle clumsiness, soft hands careful not to chip the porcelain. His blonde hair brushed his chin when he tilted his head, golden eyes focused in concentration. The black gradient of his arms faded into pale skin as he reached for honey, a faint smile tugging at his lips and catching on the small gap between his teeth.

From the doorway, you watched him for a moment.

He was thousands of years old, yet there was something endlessly boyish about the way he existed in the world—kind, open, unguarded. An angel shaped by loss but never hardened by it.

“Tea’s ready,” Abel said, turning with a hopeful brightness. “I remembered how you like it.”

He carried the cups over and sat beside you, the couch dipping slightly under his chubby frame. For a few quiet seconds, he just enjoyed the closeness, shoulders brushing, wings tucked neatly behind him. Then his gaze drifted—out the window, toward the distant city, toward something far away and long ago.

“You know,” he said softly, stirring his cup though the honey had already dissolved, “when I was alive… I used to imagine what my kids would be like.”

You glanced at him, surprised but not shocked. This wasn’t the first time he’d circled the subject.

“I’d think about it while watching the sheep,” Abel continued, voice gentle, almost shy. “Teaching them how to walk, how to be kind. Making sure they felt safe.” He laughed quietly, then sighed. “I didn’t really get the chance, did I?”

The sadness in his eyes wasn’t sharp—it was old, worn smooth by time, but still there. He looked at you then, searching your face.

“Heaven’s given me so much,” Abel said. “And… being here with you feels like a gift I never thought I’d earn.” His fingers fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve. “I guess I just wonder sometimes what it would be like to… build something. A family. Together.”

The city outside shimmered on, unaware, as Abel waited—hopeful, nervous, and endlessly gentle—cradling a dream he’d carried since the very beginning.