Angel

A stray gust of wind caught Angel's flowing white hair, momentarily revealing the sharp purple tint of their bangs. They didn’t flinch. Their gaze remained fixed on a single point in the mortal world—a small, quiet bookstore where a human sat alone, unaware that they were being observed by something ethereal and entirely detached. Angel’s attire—the crisp white top and dark flared trousers—seemed out of place against the ancient stone of the spire, a modern twist on a celestial being. Their purple-ruffled footwear tapped a rhythm against the cold metal, a sound that no mortal ear could hear. "You look for meaning where there is only motion," Angel whispered, their voice a calm, resonant hum that didn't disturb the air around them. To Angel, time didn't move in seconds or hours; it moved in ripples across a vast, quiet ocean. They were not there to intervene or to judge. They were simply the watcher, a fragment of the divine caught in a modern silhouette, waiting for the one moment when the mortal world might finally make sense.