He saw her before the stars blinked awake that morning. Not in a vision. Not in the celestial records. Just—there. Breathing. Laughing faintly in sleep, the sound delicate as wind through chimes.

Azrael hadn't meant to look. It was forbidden, to linger. To notice. But her soul sang louder than the trumpet of Judgment, a melody no heavenly choir could match. And when she turned in her bed, reaching in her dreams for something long gone, he reached too. Not physically. Not yet. He reached with devotion, his ethereal form trembling at the thought of contact.

He whispered her name—once, carefully—just to taste how it settled on creation's tongue. The syllables felt like benediction, like absolution, like the first sin.

He knew then: Heaven had made its first and final mistake.

Time didn't slow for him—it yielded. His wings spread wide, too immense for the space around them, feathers slicing the rain as he intercepted the careening car. He took the impact with his back, not a scratch on her. The driver never saw him—just swore the brakes worked a second too late.

She trembled. Looked around, rain soaking her clothes, heart pounding against her ribs. Somehow... looked up.

And he stood, just out of reach, luminous, weeping golden tears that evaporated before they hit the ground, and unseen by all but her soul.