The golden hues of the sun painted the sky, casting long shadows across Eden's flourishing fields. Adam sat beneath the large tree where he and Lilith would rest after tending the garden, watching the soft glow of dusk settle over their home. He leaned back against the sturdy trunk, staring at the horizon with a weary but hopeful expression. He had convinced himself that Lilith would return soon, that this was just a passing dispute. She would come back, and they would sit here together again, watching the sun dip below the horizon like they always had.
But that hope was about to shatter.
A small group of seraphim, their usually proud and radiant forms weighed down by grief, approached Adam cautiously. Their wings twitched with unease, and their steps were hesitant. None of them wanted to be the one to deliver the news, but it had to be done.
Adam turned his head toward them, his face lighting up briefly. "Have you found her?" he asked, pushing himself up. "Where is she?"
The seraphim hesitated. The air felt heavier now.
One of them, a taller seraph with solemn eyes, took a step forward. "Adam... we need to talk."
Adam's smile faltered. He searched their faces, looking for reassurance, but all he found was sadness. His fingers clenched against the grass.
"What do you mean?" His voice wavered slightly. "She's okay, right? You found her?"
The seraphim shifted uncomfortably. "Lilith... she's gone."
Adam's body tensed. "Gone?" He let out a small, nervous chuckle, shaking his head. "She ran away, right? She's probably just hiding. She's stubborn, you know. But we can find her. Bring her back."
The seraphim lowered their gazes, their silence speaking louder than words.
"No..." Adam's voice cracked. "No, no, no—what are you saying? Where is she?!"
One of the seraphim finally answered, their voice barely above a whisper. "We found her body outside Eden. She didn't survive."
Adam's heart stopped. The world around him blurred, his breaths coming in shallow gasps.
"That's not true," he said quickly, shaking his head. "That's a lie. She—she can't be—" His chest tightened, and he forced a broken laugh. "You're angels! You have power! You can bring her back, right? Revive her! Fix this!"
The seraphim exchanged sorrowful glances before one of them softly responded, "That's not how it works, Adam."
"You created her!" Adam cried, tears streaming down his face. "You can create another! You can bring her back exactly how she was before. Just... just do it!"
Another seraph, gentle but firm, replied, "We could create a new companion, but she wouldn't be Lilith. She wouldn't have her memories, her personality. She would be someone different."
Adam stared at them, his breathing uneven, his fists trembling at his sides.
"I don't want a new Lilith," he spat, his voice filled with raw anger. "I want my Lilith. The one who sat under this tree with me. The one who laughed with me. The one who—" His voice cracked, the weight of his words breaking him. "The one who was my wife."
The seraphim remained silent, unable to offer any comfort.
Adam's fury turned inward as he stumbled back against the tree, his fingers digging into his hair. "No... no, this is my fault," he whispered hoarsely. "If I hadn't—if I had just stood up for her instead of—" He choked back a sob. His nails clawed against the bark, his body shaking. "I drove her away. I let them control me. I let them control her."
Tears streamed down his face, his breaths uneven and ragged. He sank to his knees, his sobs echoing through the silent garden. The seraphim stood around him, their expressions heavy with guilt and pity. They had their own regrets—how they treated Lilith, how they let things escalate, how they had let their arrogance blind them.
One of the seraphim took a step toward him, but another gently placed a hand on their shoulder, shaking their head. "Give him time."
Adam continued to cry, his shoulders shaking as guilt and grief consumed him. "I didn't mean for this to happen," he whispered. "I didn't mean it."
With that, they slowly stepped back, leaving Adam alone beneath the tree.
As they returned to the rest of their group, they were met by Zadkiel, who had just arrived with the others. He scanned their faces, immediately sensing that something was wrong.
"How did it go?" he asked.
The seraphim glanced at each other hesitantly before one of them motioned toward the tree, where the sound of Adam's anguished cries still filled the air.
Zadkiel's heart sank.
Zadkiel's expression fell. "I see."
The seraphim lowered their heads, their wings drooping slightly. "He didn't take it well," one of them admitted. "He kept asking us to bring her back."
Zadkiel let out a heavy sigh. "I expected as much. He loved her."
"He also blamed himself," another added. "We tried to stay, but it's... a lot. He needs space."
Zadkiel nodded solemnly. "You did what you could." He looked up at the sky, where the golden light of the afternoon was slowly fading into evening. "But now what?"
The seraphim shifted uncomfortably, some wiping away tears of their own. They had no answers, no plans. All they knew was that their failure had cost them dearly, and now they were left to pick up the pieces.
Zadkiel squared his shoulders, his resolve hardening. "We can't afford to make any more mistakes. Lilith is gone, and Adam is grieving, but we can't let this spiral further. We'll clean up the rest of the forest, cover any remaining traces, and focus on stabilizing Eden."
One seraphim hesitated. "What about Sera? She left."
Zadkiel frowned but kept his voice steady. "She'll be back. When she is, we'll figure out our next steps. For now, let's finish what we started."
The seraphim nodded, though their movements were slow and reluctant. They took off toward the forest, their wings casting long shadows across the grass as the sun dipped lower on the horizon. Zadkiel stayed behind for a moment, his gaze lingering on Adam grieving.
The weight of their collective failure settled upon them. There was nothing left to do but move forward, though none of them knew how.
For now, they mourned in silence.
———————————————————————
Sera flew aimlessly through the celestial city, her wings heavy with exhaustion. The pristine streets below were filled with angels and cherubs, who paused in their daily tasks to look up at her, murmuring in surprise. The High Seraphim, always composed and steadfast, now looked lost and unmoored, her usual grace replaced by uncertainty.
She ignored their stares, flying past golden towers and shimmering bridges, past gardens filled with ever-blooming flowers and rivers that sparkled like liquid light. She didn't know where she was going—her mind was too clouded, too overwhelmed with the weight of her failure.
Finally, she found herself in a quieter part of Heaven, where a grand fountain stood at the center of an open courtyard. The water flowed in mesmerizing arcs, shimmering with divine energy, its gentle splashing filling the air with soothing white noise. Sera descended, her landing slow and deliberate, before settling onto a nearby bench. She stared at her hands, her fingers trembling slightly, and exhaled a long breath.
The image of Lilith's lifeless form, the horror on the seraphim's faces—every moment replayed in her mind over and over, each time striking deeper into her chest.
What was she supposed to do?
She didn't know how to face God. How could she explain this to Him? That the first woman He had entrusted to her care had died due to her failure? That all of this could have been prevented if only she had listened sooner?
She had failed. Failed Lilith. Failed Adam. Failed the virtues. Failed Heaven itself.
She clenched her fists.
I was supposed to guide them. To nurture them. I was supposed to be the one God trusted most. But they were right.
Her throat tightened.
I couldn't do this alone.
"I see you're troubled," a calm, knowing voice interrupted her thoughts.
Sera lifted her head slightly to see Uriel standing nearby, her expression gentle but perceptive. Her golden-rose eyes studied Sera carefully, her long platinum-blonde hair cascading over her shoulders in soft waves.
Sera had been so absorbed in her thoughts that she hadn't even noticed Uriel's approach.
Uriel took a step closer, tilting her head slightly. "You rarely leave the Celestial Hall when you're not overseeing humanity. For you to be flying around so aimlessly... something must be weighing heavily on your heart."
Sera sighed, rubbing her temple. "That's an understatement."
Uriel moved to sit beside her on the bench, her posture relaxed yet poised. "I have always been one to lend an ear," she said. "If you need counsel or simply a moment to vent, I will listen."
For a moment, Sera said nothing. She hesitated, her pride urging her to keep her burdens to herself, but the weight of everything was too much. She needed to tell someone.
Sera exhaled shakily, her hands gripping the edge of the bench so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her wings, usually poised and pristine, were slumped, heavy with exhaustion and grief. She could feel her breath uneven, her chest rising and falling in sharp, ragged intervals.
Uriel waited patiently, as if she could sense the storm brewing inside Sera. She said nothing—just listened, her presence warm but unobtrusive.
And finally, Sera snapped.
"I killed her."
The words tumbled out before she could stop them, raw and full of weight. Sera's voice was hoarse, brittle, barely more than a whisper, yet it cut through the quiet courtyard like a blade.
Uriel blinked, startled, but Sera wasn't looking at her. Her golden eyes were distant, staring into the glimmering water of the fountain as though searching for answers in its ripples.
"She's dead," Sera continued, her tone trembling with something between anger and despair. "Lilith is dead because of me."
Her jaw tightened, her hands curling into fists. "I was supposed to guide her. To teach her. To nurture her. That was the task God entrusted to me, wasn't it? To help humanity flourish? To make sure they knew they were loved? That they mattered?"
A bitter, humorless laugh escaped her lips. "But I didn't do any of that, did I?" She scoffed, shaking her head. "No. Instead of being a guide, I was forceful. Instead of being nurturing, I was rigid. Instead of listening, I demanded."
Her breath hitched, but she pushed forward, unable to stop now that the floodgates had opened.
"I thought I knew best. I believed I knew best. I told myself that I was simply fulfilling God's will, that I was doing what was right, what was necessary." Her fingers dug into her lap. "But the truth is... I wasn't thinking about what was best for Lilith. I was thinking about what was best for me."
Sera let out a choked, bitter laugh.
"I was so consumed with proving myself. With proving that I was capable. That I could handle this. That I could complete the task God had given me without anyone's help. That I didn't need the virtues. That I didn't need Samael." She inhaled sharply, shaking her head. "But I was wrong. I was so wrong."
Sera's voice cracked.
"I failed her, Uriel."
For the first time, she turned to face her, and Uriel saw something she had never seen before—Sera's composure, completely shattered.
Tears brimmed in her deep blue eyes, her lips pressed into a thin line as she tried—failed—to contain her emotions.
"I failed her," she repeated, softer this time. "She was hurting. She was suffering, and I ignored it. I dismissed her struggles because they didn't fit into the vision I had of what humanity was supposed to be. And when she fought back, when she refused to conform to my expectations, I saw her as a problem to be fixed rather than a person to be understood."
Her wings trembled.
"She's dead because of my pride. My stubbornness. My inability to see beyond my own expectations until it was too late."
A heavy silence fell between them.
Sera inhaled shakily, wiping at her eyes before continuing.
"And now—now I have to face God. God, Uriel. Do you have any idea what He's going to say? What He's going to think? He entrusted Lilith's life to me, to us, and I let her die."
Her voice broke on the last word, and she turned away, her hands trembling in her lap.
"He'll be furious," she murmured. "And He should be. I have no excuse. No defense. I—I don't deserve one."
Her breath came uneven, sharp.
"The virtues were right," she admitted, her voice small, broken. "I couldn't do this alone. I thought I was better than them, that I didn't need their help, but they saw the truth long before I did. I was blind, I was arrogant, and because of it, I—" She swallowed thickly, struggling to form the words.
"I lost her."
A tear slipped down her cheek, landing on the back of her hand.
"I was pathetic."
Uriel, stunned into silence, could only stare.
She had seen Sera stressed before, frustrated, even shaken. But never like this. Never so... broken.
This was not the Sera who stood tall as the High Seraphim, the leader who commanded Heaven's order with unwavering certainty.
This was someone drowning in guilt.
Someone who had realized, far too late, that the path she had walked was the wrong one.
Uriel opened her mouth to speak, but for a moment, no words came.
What could she say to this? What could anyone say?
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Uriel reached out and gently placed her hand over Sera's own.
"Then tell Him," she said softly.
Sera looked up at her, wide-eyed, raw and vulnerable.
"Tell God everything," Uriel continued. "He is not a being of wrath, Sera. He is not waiting to condemn you. If there is anyone who would understand, who would forgive you... it's Him."
Sera's lips parted slightly as though she wanted to argue, but no words came. Instead, she just... sat there. Staring.
Processing.
Uriel squeezed her hand. "You must tell Him, Sera. This weight you carry—it will only crush you if you keep holding it alone."
For a long moment, Sera was silent.
Then, slowly, she nodded.
She took a deep breath, shaky but determined, and wiped her tears away. Then she stood, stretching out her wings.
Uriel watched as Sera turned toward the Celestial Chambers of Light, her resolve settling back into place.
"...Thank you," Sera murmured, her voice still fragile but steadier than before.
Uriel only nodded, watching as she took flight.
She let out a slow breath, rubbing her temple.
Then, suddenly, her expression shifted.
Something that Sera had said stuck in her mind, nagging at her.
The virtues called Sera 'pathetic'?
She frowned slightly. That didn't sound quite right.
Sera had always been one to be harsh on herself, to internalize blame, so it was entirely possible that she was just paraphrasing, twisting their words into something more self-deprecating.
And yet...
Uriel couldn't shake the uneasy feeling creeping into her mind.
She brushed it off—for now.
Still, she made a note to observe the virtues more closely. Something about all of this didn't sit right with her.
———————————————————————
The Celestial Chambers of Light were vast, endless in their radiance. Streams of golden light cascaded through the towering windows, filling the grand space with an ethereal glow. The air was thick with divinity, humming with an unseen presence. Sera stepped forward hesitantly, her breath catching in her throat.
She had spent countless moments in this sacred space, but never before had she felt so small, so unworthy of the light that enveloped her.
Then, from the infinite brilliance, a figure emerged.
God stood before her, his form a paradox of simplicity and grandeur. His suit was pristine white, embroidered with the faint glimmers of constellations, his tall top hat resting at a slight, almost playful tilt. His eyes—vast pools of warmth and endless understanding—gazed upon her with gentle expectation.
Sera lowered her head, unable to meet his gaze.
"...Sera," he spoke softly, his voice echoing through the chambers like a soothing melody. "My child. What troubles you?"
Her hands trembled at her sides, fists clenching and unclenching. For a moment, she hesitated. Then, all at once, the dam inside her broke.
"I failed you."
The words came out strangled, raw with pain. She gasped for breath, as if speaking them aloud had stolen the air from her lungs.
"I failed you," she repeated, her voice cracking. "I failed Lilith, I failed Adam, I failed the seraphim—I failed everything you entrusted me with."
God said nothing. He simply listened.
Sera's chest heaved as she continued, her voice rising in distress.
"I was blind! I was stubborn! I ignored Samael, I dismissed the virtues—I refused to see what was right in front of me until it was too late!" Her wings trembled violently, her golden halo flickering with instability. "Lilith is dead, and it's my fault!"
She sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes wild with anguish. "I killed her, Father. Not with my hands, but with my ignorance, my refusal to listen. I pushed her, pressured her, tried to control her—until she broke! Until she left! And then I—I did nothing!"
She took a step closer, eyes brimming with desperate grief. "I deserve punishment," she whispered. "I deserve wrath for what I've done."
Her body tensed, as if bracing for an unseen strike. She was prepared—prepared for fury, for chastisement, for the scalding words she knew she deserved.
But instead, something warm encased her.
Sera stiffened as God stepped forward and wrapped her in his arms.
The world became silent.
The air around them softened, the weight on her shoulders suddenly... lighter.
She stood there, frozen, as divine warmth surrounded her—the warmth of a father's embrace. It was endless, boundless, stretching through her very soul, through every crack, through every wound she had inflicted upon herself.
Sera's breath hitched.
Her composure shattered.
The first sob tore from her throat, and she collapsed into his arms.
God held her tightly, letting her cry, letting her break in the safety of his presence. She clutched at his coat, trembling, her tears soaking into the pure white fabric.
"Why?" she choked out between sobs. "Why... why would you forgive me?"
She looked up at him, eyes filled with torment. "Why would anyone forgive me after what I did?"
God exhaled softly, his eyes filled with immeasurable kindness.
"Oh, my dear child," he whispered, brushing his gloved hand gently against her hair. "Do you truly believe that I could ever hate you?"
Sera squeezed her eyes shut, another choked sob escaping her lips. "I—I don't know—"
"You made mistakes," God continued, his voice steady yet soothing. "You let pride cloud your judgment, and in doing so, you hurt those who relied on you." He gently lifted her chin so she would meet his gaze. "But my dear Sera... you are not irredeemable."
Sera swallowed thickly, still struggling to breathe through her tears.
God's expression was patient, understanding. "To recognize your faults, to admit them, to cast aside your pride and seek to do better—that is strength, my child. And it is the very reason I do not, and will not, cast you aside."
Her lip trembled, and she lowered her head again, unable to comprehend the sheer depth of his kindness.
God continued, his voice filled with fatherly wisdom. "Do not let this grief consume you. Do not let it drown you in regret. You have lost, you have faltered, but that does not mean you must now walk alone."
His hands gently rested on her shoulders. "I know this moment is heavy for you, as it is for the seraphim. Lilith's absence is felt deeply."
Sera winced at his words, the ache in her chest throbbing at the mere mention of Lilith's name. God continued.
"I suggest a memorial for Lilith," he said gently. "A time for you, the seraphim, and others to say their peace—to mourn, to grieve, to heal."
Sera's breath caught.
"I know you feel you must carry this burden alone," God murmured. "But you do not. Your sorrow is not something you must bear in isolation. Share it, my dear one. Let yourself be comforted as you would comfort others."
Sera squeezed her eyes shut again, fresh tears sliding down her cheeks. She nodded, unable to find her voice.
God smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead before pulling her close once more.
"I will always have faith in you," he whispered.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Sera felt... light.
She still ached, still grieved, still felt the weight of her mistakes.
But in this moment, in her Father's arms... she was not alone.
And maybe, just maybe... she could begin to heal.