The cold stone cheek was rough against his palm, fixed eyes that never would quite meet his – focussed instead on the ground, at the source of its quiet misery -- his as well. Staring at the grave it guarded jealously, protected dutifully, watched-over sorrowfully. And mourned. 

He stepped back, couldn’t quite bring himself to look at the earth beneath his feet, at the grass that grew lush and green, or the flowers that bloomed. At the tiny tree, or the words etched forever in the stone. At the name. 

Forever weeping, the angel bent over the grave, bowed with grief, wings sheltering the fragile form of the angel that to him seemed too human. He tried hard to keep thoughts out of his mind, worked to keep focussed, keep blank, but still a bitter twist went through him and his eyes turned from the ground to the sky and thought: heaven must have needed you more. And he couldn’t quite recall when he had become accepting of life and the bitter sorrows it dealt him, but thought instead that he knew exactly the reason.

 

End Prologue: