The city she used to live in was now in ruins. It was the age of war. Angels and demons fought against one another in the realm of humans. They were the ones who suffered. She lived in a modest house with a garden. Even though the circumstances were unstable, she liked to grow flowers in the garden.
He would come visit every now and then, but never did she see him. Not back then. She could only recognize his existence by his voice and the “swoosh” sound his wings made whenever he came. Wherever he settled, he wouldn’t let her meet him. Gradually, she learned to get used to it.
Like her neighbors, she rarely stepped out of the house. Since her house was not very close to the other ones, he often became her sole company. She would tell him about her flowers, and he would tell her about the world out there–only the bits he thought appropriate. Although his voice was seldom filled with emotion, it became part of her comfort zone.
“You should see it,” he had once said, referring to a site. “Some parts of this city are not so dangerous.”
She had been sitting on a bench, gazing at the state of the road. “Is that true?” she asked.
“Kind of,” he replied. “Though if you want to stay here, it would be safer.”
“Are you an angel?” She asked. She didn’t know where to look, so she kept gazing at the road.
At first, he didn’t answer. After a while, he said, “Do you think I am one?”
She smiled to herself and nodded. “But it isn’t bad if you are a demon.”
To her, he was like chocolate rain.