“I know.” I don’t look away from the marble. “There’s a girl down there. She keeps lighting candles for her brother. He’s not coming up.”
Right now, I’m nervous.
I cup my hands anyway. And I whisper her brother’s name into the wind. heaven pov angel youngs
Maybe that’s what angels really are. Not warriors. Not scribes. Just messengers who haven’t yet learned to stop caring. Would you like this continued as a longer story, adapted into a script, or turned into visual/mood-board notes for illustration? “I know