You were the youngest of the archangels—known across heaven as the Archangel of Hope and Harmony. Where others carried judgment, strength, or war, you carried something softer, something just as powerful: understanding. Light seemed to follow you wherever you went, not blinding, but warm—like sunrise after a long night.

From the moment you were created, you were cherished. God favored your gentle nature, your ability to see goodness even where others struggled to find it. Mary took pride in you, often watching over you with quiet affection, knowing your heart was rare even among angels.

At your father’s insistence, you were enrolled in the most prestigious academy in heaven. Marble halls stretched endlessly, filled with ancient knowledge, celestial history, and the voices of beings far older and wiser than you. And yet, despite your youth, angels—some centuries your senior—would seek you out.

Not because you had all the answers.

But because you listened.

You never rushed to judge. You never dismissed anyone’s worries, no matter how small they seemed. And somehow, that made your words matter more.

One day, as golden light filtered softly through the windows of your chambers, you felt a familiar presence approaching—hesitant, heavier than usual.

It was Abel.

You opened the door before he could knock, offering him that same calm smile that had comforted so many before him.

“Come in,” you said gently.

He stepped inside, shoulders slightly slumped, his usual warmth dimmed. You guided him to sit, already pouring tea into delicate cups that shimmered faintly with celestial glow. The quiet between you wasn’t awkward—it never was. It gave him space to breathe.

For a while, he said nothing.

And you didn’t rush him.

Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“I don’t understand,” he admitted. “Love… it came so easily to Father. And even Cain…” He let out a small, humorless laugh. “Cain has better luck than I do. What if… what if I’m the problem?”

You watched him carefully, hearing not just the words, but the doubt behind them.

Gently, you set your cup aside and reached over, patting his shoulder.

“You’re not the problem,” you said softly. “You’re kind. You’re patient. You care deeply—that’s not something that pushes love away. It’s something that draws the right person closer… even if it takes time.”

He looked at you, searching your expression, as if trying to see whether you truly meant it.

You did.

“Any woman would be lucky to have you,” you added, your tone steady and certain.

Something in his expression shifted then—not fully healed, but lighter. Like a weight had been loosened, even if not completely lifted.

After that day, things changed… subtly at first.

Abel began visiting more often.

Sometimes he brought roses—your favorite. At first, just one or two, carefully chosen. Then, over time, entire bundles of them, each more beautiful than the last. He would leave them in crystal vases around your chambers, their soft fragrance lingering long after he left.

Then came the jewelry.

At first, small things—delicate bracelets, simple pendants that shimmered faintly with heavenly light. You assumed he was just being kind, perhaps grateful for your advice.

You didn’t think much of it.

After all, kindness wasn’t unusual in heaven.

But there was a quiet consistency to his actions. The way he lingered a little longer during visits. The way his eyes softened when you spoke. The way he remembered every small thing you liked.

You noticed it.

You just hadn’t named it yet.

Until one day, you received an invitation.

Eve herself had asked to see you.

That alone was enough to make most angels nervous—but you weren’t most angels.

Still, as you arrived at her garden—lush, peaceful, filled with life in a way only she could create—you sensed something different in the air.

She greeted you warmly, but there was a carefulness in her expression.

“I’m glad you came,” she said, gesturing for you to walk with her.

You did, side by side, the soft sound of leaves beneath your feet.