Carol Mayberry returned to Redemption City after a pleasant day of teaching the sweetest little angel children anyone has ever met. She'd opted out of angelic guardianship for the time being, instead deciding to spend some time getting used to Heaven and all it had to offer. She'd chosen to take on a position at an elementary school a few thousand miles away where Earth's stillborn babies got the chance to have a childhood. They were all such smart kids.

She was in an especially good mood that afternoon, having successfully helped one of the more creative and less academic children officially pass their reading comprehension test. Third time was a charm with that one. They'd given her a crayon drawing as a thank you, which she intended to frame and place on her wall. She hoped to earn enough children's drawings to fill a museum one day. It could happen; she had eternity to collect them, after all.

As she glided lazily through the air, low to the ground, but still enjoying the novelty of flying, she passed by the mayor's house and heard a heart-wrenching sniffling sound coming from one of his prized rose bushes. Her mind involuntarily flashed back to one of her more horrific experiences from Hell, where she'd been lured into a back alley by the sound of someone fake-crying. She'd gone to help, only to be violently attacked and violated. She'd been brutalized, tortured for a few hours, and then killed and sent to regeneration.

She began having a panic attack, so she landed on the ground and forced herself to breathe. This was Heaven, not Hell. She was safe here. One… Two... Three… She closed her eyes and counted to ten in her head, just like she told her students to do when they were upset. When that didn't work, she identified five things she could see, four things she could feel, three things she could hear, two things she could smell, and one thing she could taste.

Her heart rate slowed, and the panic subsided. It was fine. She was fine. Mayberry turned to the rose bush, listening. A choking sob with a voice she recognized cried out pathetically. It was the mayor. She supposed that made sense; this was his garden. He had quite the green thumb; the bush he was hiding in was absolutely massive.

"Marc?" She approached cautiously, "You okay, sweetheart?"

The sobs quieted for a moment, then a weak and very sad voice responded, "Fine." His voice broke as he spoke.

"Like Hell, you are," she said. "I'm coming in. Where are you?"

"You don't have to do that," the same heartbroken voice said quietly.

"If you don't tell me how to get in there, I'm just going to have to push through all these thorns."

"You'll ruin your shirt doing that," he said. She'd also hurt the bush, but he didn't mention that.

"So how do I get in?"

After a few seconds of silence Marc surrendered, "Bottom left. Push the largest branch upward and there's an opening." He sniffled again.

She found the branch in question and crawled through the short tunnel of sweet-smelling flowers. Inside, she found a small hollowed out area where the branches had been carefully pruned into a sort of nook. It smelled perfectly sweet, and the ground was carpeted with so many petals you had no need to worry about getting dirt on your clothes. A few rays of sunlight snuck in from behind the thick leaves, and Marcel's angelic glow illuminated the rest of the area beautifully. It was a good spot to hide away from the world.

Baby birds chirped in a tiny nest, and colorful butterflies fluttered about, feasting on the abundant nectar. One of them had nestled onto Marc's hand. It opened and closed its wings lazily, enjoying the juices from an orange slice he held out for it.

He lay there, head on his arm and wings wrapped around himself like a blanket. There were tears streaming down his princely face. "Do you need help with something?" he asked sadly, "I don't think I have the space for that right now. I'm sorry. Can it wait until tomorrow?"

"No, cutie, I'm alright. What's wrong?" She wedged herself in and sat next to him, holding her hand out for one of the other butterflies to crawl onto. She studied its vibrant pattern. "Did someone hurt you during your delivery yesterday?" She hoped he hadn't been assaulted. Someone as handsome as him would be a big target for rapists in Hell.

He shook his head but didn't say anything else. He only sniffled. His eyes were red and puffy. Mayberry had comforted enough crying children to know he'd say what it was eventually, she just needed to sit with him for a minute and let him get more comfortable with her being there. Once someone knew you were safe to be vulnerable with, that's when their lips loosen.

"You know," she said, "before I died, I had the privilege of teaching this adorable autistic kid for a few years. She was such a clever and creative girl. She liked roses, too. During class, she'd take all my construction paper and fold dozens of paper flowers until she'd made a bouquet. Having something for her hands to do helped her pay attention, so I always made sure to keep her supplied with all the paper she could need, even though the school refused to pay for it. She'd fold them, then at the end of the day, she'd give it to me before she went home. Every day, like clockwork, she'd hand me a paper bouquet and say, 'thanks miss teacher lady. I liked the new facts today.'" Mayberry smiled at the memory.

Despite his heartbreak, Marc managed a weak smile at the image. "That's sweet," he said weakly, eyes still on the butterfly in his hand.

"She really was," Mayberry confirmed. "When the lesson was over and the kids were doing their work, she'd take a pause from folding and hummed instead. It was another way of stimming so that she could concentrate. Her other teachers always tried to get me to make her stop, but the music was quiet, and it helped her. She always hummed the same tune."

The butterfly in Mayberry's hand flew off and landed on a rose. "When the girl grew up, she became a talented musician. I heard her homework tune turned into an indie song. It played all over the internet for a few months. She went viral and got hired as a songwriter."

"Good for her," Marc said, "It's a shame those other teachers wanted her to stop." He didn't know why Mayberry was telling him this, but her voice was comforting, and it made him feel a little less alone. He liked kids.

"Would you like to hear it?" she offered.

He shook his head, "I don't want to be around anything too loud right now."

"What if I hummed it the way she used to?"

He thought about that for a minute, listening to the baby birds chirping nearby and the rose leaves rustling in a soft breeze. A little music might be nice, if it wasn't too overwhelming. He was exhausted from sobbing for hours and hours. He'd been crying there for so long he didn't even know what time it was anymore. Eventually, he nodded.

So, Mayberry changed her position a bit, settling Marc's head in her lap to make him more comfortable. She ran her fingers through his silky hair and hummed softly, comforting him from whatever it was that had hurt his heart. He was such a gentle soul; she didn't like to see him in pain. He was the kind of person she hoped her students would grow up to be. Kind, hardworking, and empathetic. The world could stand to have more Marcs in it.

Marcel felt Mayberry's fingers in his hair and listened as she hummed quietly. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of his beloved roses. Slowly, his breathing steadied, and his pain lessened. He dozed off into a dreamless sleep, napping peacefully. Mayberry kept humming, knowing he needed the rest, even if she didn't know why.

He didn't wake up until the sun had gone down, but Mayberry was still there, humming absentmindedly and running her fingers in his hair. She had taken the orange slice from his fingers and was holding a handful of sleepy butterflies. Her ethereal skin illuminated the inside of the rose bush as if she were the moon itself. So did his. There was a reason angels had no need to fear the dark.

"I'm sorry," Marc said quietly, "I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"That's alright," she said, "it looked like you needed it."

"My butterflies like you," he noticed.

"They like the orange," she smiled, setting her hand down and carefully guiding them off of her fingers. "So," she asked, "are you ready to tell me what's going on?"

He sighed. "Well," he said, sitting up and plucking one of the roses off the vine, "It's kind of my own fault." He thought for a moment. "Actually, it's completely my fault," he corrected sadly. He began pulling the petals off the oversized bloom one by one, adding them to the carpet below.

"What is?" Mayberry prompted, listening.

"Elida is never going to love me," he said bringing a petal to his nose, inhaling the scent for comfort.

"How is that your fault?"

"She told me so many times. I should have believed her."

"So why did you believe her this time?"

"I saw her looking at someone else the way I look at her."

"Alastor?"

"Alastor."

"That tracks," she nodded absently.

"Does it?"

"Other than their quick visits, I haven't seen them in almost a year. But while I was at the hotel, those two had a kind of weird vibe going on."

"I hope he doesn't hurt her," Marc said, concerned.

"Who can say? He's unpredictable. Then again, so is she."

Mayberry sat silently for a moment, waiting to see if Marc would say anything else. When he didn't, she asked, "Why are you in love with Elida?"

He knit his eyebrows together, "What?"

"What do you love about her?"

"Oh," Marc plucked a few more petals from the rose in his hand, "Well first off, who doesn't? She's beautiful, and kind, and smart."

"So are a lot of people," Mayberry pointed out, "What's special about Elida?"

"Well, I… I guess it started when we died?"

"What happened when you died?"

"We met St. Peter at the same time. Then, we went through the grieving process together. She was my first friend up here."

"Is that all?"

"What do you mean 'is that all?'" Marc gaped at her incredulously.

"That's an event, not a quality."

"Well, I'm not really sure what you're wanting me to say, right now." He was getting a bit frustrated.

"Do you love Elida, or do you love the idea of her?"

"That's kind of a rude question," Marcel pouted

"I don't think so. I think it's an honest question," Mayberry countered. "So, which is it? If Elida came up to you tomorrow and said she loved you and that she wanted to be with you, what sort of life would you like to have with her?"

"I'd marry her," Marc said, imagining a ring on his hand, "and we'd grow herbs for her potions in my garden, and have a bunch of kids, and spend eternity taking care of each other."

"That sounds nice," Mayberry admitted. "So, what makes you think you can't have that with someone else?"

"I never said that."

"I suppose you didn't."

"I just…" Marc sighed, "I always imagined it would be Elida."

"Ah. So, it WAS the fantasy you were attached to." Mayberry confirmed her own theory. "What's next, then? You're finally ready to shake off the shadow of a love that will never be?"

"What a poetic way to say she'll never want me," he said in a deadpan voice.

"Why not let someone else want you? I'm sure if you put yourself out there, you'd have prospects falling at your feet."

"I do."

"You do?"

"Yeah, people ask me out all the time, I just always say no. I've been loyal to Elida."

"I'm not even going to try unpacking that."

"Probably a good idea." He plucked the last petal off his rose and picked a fresh bloom from the bush.

"Did you have a spouse when you were alive?" Mayberry asked. She'd have said 'wife', but she wasn't actually sure what Marc's full orientation was, so she erred on the side of caution just in case.

"No. But I've always wanted one."

"You have to be careful who you pick," she warned, "I married a man who gave me all sorts of signs that he didn't want me. But I chased him anyway, and he eventually gave in. I got a shut-up ring. He turned out to be an awful partner. He treated me like a burden, a maid, and a nuisance rather than someone he wanted around. I wanted love, but in his mind, I was only good for sex and chores. It got so bad that when I forgot to give him a birthday gift one year, I was terrified he'd refuse to talk to me for a week. That's when I caught him cheating, and I just completely snapped. I shot him, and then myself. It was wrong to kill him, I acknowledge that. But the point is, you don't want to marry someone who clearly doesn't love you. You have no idea how much a one-sided relationship hurts."

"I have some idea," Marc said, another tear escaping from his eye and rolling down his cheek. "I just want to be loved," he squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in his hands. He tried to fight back the sobs, but they returned with a vengeance, demanding to be felt whether he wanted them or not.

Mayberry wrapped her arms around him and pulled him into a comforting hug. He accepted, burying his face in her shoulder and holding onto her for dear life. She let him cry, not worried about the damp spot on her shirt. "It's okay, sweetheart, I'm here," she whispered gently, "You're not alone. There are so many people who love and care about you."

"I never got to do anything, Mayberry," he sobbed, "I spent my whole life under a stethoscope. I just thought being with Elida would give me a chance to…" he couldn't finish his sentence, the tears choking the words out of his throat.

"Have a life?" she suggested.

He nodded into her shoulder.

"If you don't mind my asking," Mayberry said cautiously, "how did you die?"

"Cancer," he said through racking sobs, "I'm terrified to go to Elida's Halloween party because I don't know if I can look in the mirror and see that horrible hospital gown again. I don't want to see myself without my hair, or with the I.V. in my arm, or with that stupid paper band on my wrist. I can't do it, Mayberry, I can't!"

"You don't have to." She hugged him tighter, "You don't have to do anything."

"I promised I'd go," he said.

"She'll understand, you know she will."

"She needs me there as ~hic~ the mayor," he said, hiccupping.

"I'll stay behind with you," she offered. "We'll say I had a huge panic attack and you stayed behind to help me."

"I don't like lying," he said.

"So I'll do it," she suggested, "What could they do? Send me to Hell? Old news."

He laughed, despite himself, "'They', who?"

"I don't know," she shrugged the shoulder he wasn't buried in, "whoever's been sending us up here, I guess? Here," She pulled a travel-size packet of tissues from her pocket. Angelic children weren't half as gross as her living students had been, but she still kept tissues on hand by force of habit. She pulled one out and lifted his chin her hand, wiping the tears from his face. "You'll be so easy to love once you let someone in who actually wants to do it. And if you don't want to go to the Hallows Eve party, you don't have to."

"But Elida will be upset," he pleaded, looking desperately into Mayberry's purple eyes.

"So let her be upset," she responded, "No matter how nice someone is, or how much you love them, you don't owe anyone anything. You don't have to give more than you're willing to give just because it's what you've done in the past."

He thought hard about that. No one had ever really told him he could say no; not when the person was asking nicely. He was so used to just doing what Elida wanted without question, that he didn't even know what she'd do if he just… didn't?

"I…" he hesitated, "I need to think about it."

"Well, if at any point you need an out, just let me know. I'll be your excuse."

"Thank you." He pointed to the tissues in her hand, "Can I have another one of those?"

She handed him the whole thing, "Keep it."

He wiped his eyes and blew his nose. He was familiar with crying, but usually he preferred to be holed up in his room or hiding alone in his rose bush with the butterflies. He didn't know it was so easy to hear him from the other side. He wondered if he could commission a soundproofing spell. Or maybe not. Mayberry was just what he needed, apparently. He felt better.

"I think…" He took a deep, shaky breath, "It's time to talk to the matchmakers. I want to find my person."

"Over the Ambassador already?" Mayberry looked at him, surprised.

"I think you're right. I was more in love with the fantasy of her than who she actually is. I mean, I do love her, and I always will, but…"

"But you love everyone," She finished for him.

"Yeah."

"That's clear in the way you treat the people around you," she smiled softly, brushing a lock of hair back from his face.

"I just do what anyone would do," he deflected.

She shook her head, "No, you don't. You do so much more than that and you know it. Even by angelic standards. I'll tell you what," she dropped her hand and adopted that telltale devilish smirk the Redeemed all shared.

He waited, but she didn't say anything, she just looked at him, grinning mysteriously. Eventually he caved, "Fine, I'll bite. What?"

"Before you go to the matchmakers, you're going to take me to dinner. Somewhere nice. My favorite flower is pink irises, and my favorite candy is dark chocolate with sea-salt. I like cheesy poems and big bouquets. You can pick me up tomorrow at seven. You already have my address."

He froze, his brain buffering, trying to understand what she'd just said. While his mind caught up with the situation, Mayberry scooted around him and crawled back out of the rose tunnel she'd come in through. She made sure to 'accidentally' give him a very good view of her butt on the way out. He might have appreciated the view if he wasn't so confused.

He shook his head and rushed out of the rose bush, "Hey, wait!" He was so focused on puzzling out what she'd said that by the time it clicked, she was long gone, flown off toward her own home for the evening.

He watched her glow shrink smaller into the night, then let his gaze drift upwards to the stars. His first instinct was to tell Mayberry that he couldn't go; that it wouldn't work. But that was just habit. He'd been waiting on Elida for so long. Maybe someone like Mayberry was worth a shot.

It was time to stop waiting.