Tiny hands cling to his hair and tiny feet press tense against his chest to keep from falling, not yet big enough to fill the role that neither knows they'll be saved for. Tiny fingers point toward the sky, labeling the innumerable points that can never be counted in a single lifetime and he doesn't have the heart to tell this child that it's all an illusion, fabricated, the stars, this world and especially this life but never the way he feels and that's the reason. It's because he's a father and he wants to protect it even if protection is the biggest illusion of all.
Manufactured angels will bring judgment down from their self imposed god of a stolen heaven because he's not unlike them and it appears that returning would be the best chance they have. Only an appearance however; never a choice yet for more than two years he's allowed to remember that family which the angels forgot and soon even that will be no more.
It's because he's a father and nights like this are rare and fleeting, insecure but free, and the weight of the world is on his shoulders without really knowing it. Maybe never to know.