The days blurred as time stretched.

Burred together in pale stretches of silence, broken only by the hum of the engine and the memories he kept refusing to acknowledge. He wasn’t about to admit he missed Aziraphale. Not out loud. Not even to himself. But the absence pressed against him constantly, a shape carved into his life that nothing else could quite fill.

Every street he passed seemed to echo with something familiar. A café Aziraphale once praised for its “delightful” pastries. A corner where they’d argued about metaphysics for an hour. A bookshop window Crowley caught himself glancing at before snapping his head away, irritated at his own reflex. He insisted he didn’t miss anything. The universe didn’t need to know he was lying. So he avoided Soho. He avoided bookshops. He avoided anything that tasted even slightly like comfort.

Then the air shifted.

Subtle at first, barely more than a tremor in the atmosphere. Not Hell’s signature, and not the bright, rigid stamp of Heaven’s usual arrivals. Something in between. Something new.

Crowley stiffened before he turned. An angel stood a short distance away, posture steady, gaze calm. Their presence was unmistakably celestial, but not harsh. Not intrusive. Quiet, almost. Observing rather than judging.

So that was it. Heaven had sent a replacement.

“So,” he muttered, “they finally sent someone down.”

The angel didn’t answer. They didn’t need to. Their presence said enough. Crowley pushed his sunglasses higher, even though the street was so dim they weren’t doing much good.

“Suppose you’re here to take over the whole… Earth assignment.” His tone stayed flat, but the words felt heavier than he liked. “Congratulations. Hope they gave you a manual.”