He had fallen. He needed to hide. He didn't know where to hide. His wings were battered and bruised, his skin wrinkly and chapped. The Fall was done, the angels are gone.
I am alone.
He had fallen. He found an old barn across from his poor landing spot. His wings were dirty and muddy, his skin rough and textured. The Fall was done, the angels are gone.
I am alone.
He had fallen. The barn was abandoned and clean with neat stacks of hay. His wings fluffed themselves and relaxed, his skin was now muddy and dirty. The Fall is now over, he can't find the angels.
Am I alone?
