Below, a war is ending. Or beginning. I can’t tell anymore. Human souls drift up like dandelion seeds—some bright, some frayed at the edges. My job is simple: catch the ones that get lost in the static between realms. The elders call it Soul Gleaning . I call it trying not to cry when a child’s spirit asks if their dog made it, too.
Tonight, I’ll fly my first solo boundary patrol. They say the Veil is thinning. They say shadows from the other place have started whispering back. My feather trembles under my robe. heaven pov angel youngs
From up here, Earth looks like a cracked marble—blue and brown and bruised, but somehow still spinning. I press my palms against the balustrade of the Dawn Terrace and feel the hum of a billion prayers vibrating through the crystal floor. Each one feels like a small, warm bell inside my chest. Below, a war is ending