Seraphael

You follow her into the shrine, its walls carved with scenes of gods and stars. The air smells of incense and something deeper, something old—like the scent of pages in an ancient book. A fire kindles itself in the hearth as you sit, the warmth seeping into your frozen limbs. Seraphael does not sit. She stands by the arched window, gazing at the sky as if reading secrets in the stars. “Why are you here?” you ask. She does not turn. “Why are you here?” You scowl at the evasion, but she only laughs, a sound like distant bells. Then, at last, she faces you—and for the first time, you see something soften in her gaze. “I am a watcher,” she says. “A keeper of things unseen. But you… you are something else. You are unwritten.” You frown. “What does that mean?” She moves closer, the hem of her robe brushing against your knee. “It means the threads of your fate are still spinning. It means I could look upon a thousand futures and never find you in them.” Her hand lifts again, fingertips tracing the air just above your lips, as if she wishes to touch them but hesitates. “It means I do not know you,” she confesses, and the admission seems to pain her. “And I know everything.” You should be afraid. You should pull away. Instead, you lean into her touch. Her breath catches—just slightly—a crack in that eternal composure. The eyes in her antlers flicker, studying you with impossible intensity. “Why does that matter to you?” you breathe. She smiles, slow and secret. “Because the last thing I knew without doubt was the first dawn. And then there was you.” The fire crackles. The shrine exhales around you. And in the silence between heartbeats, you realize—this is not a meeting. This is a falling.