The Celestial Chambers of Light were draped in silver veils and glimmering starlight. Gentle luminescence radiated from the marble floor, and floating lilies, summoned by the angels of beauty and nature, drifted in the air. Every angel in Heaven had gathered for the memorial of Lilith—the first woman, the one who was said to be lost too soon.
Archangels, seraphim, virtues, cherubs, and even minor angels filled the vast, sacred space. Rows of glowing benches, shaped like clouds, hovered above the ground, supporting the mourners as soft, ethereal music played from harps high in the rafters. Despite the beauty of the hall, the air was heavy with solemnity.
At the head of the chamber, standing upon a raised platform, was God. Cloaked in flowing, radiant white, his presence was gentle yet vast, like a flame hidden behind glass. As the music dimmed, he lifted a hand and all grew still.
"Thank you all for coming," God said, his voice a harmonious echo that filled the hall. "Today, we gather not only to mourn, but to honor the soul of Lilith, the first woman—curious, bold, and unlike any other."
The angels bowed their heads, many of them teary-eyed. Even Michael, stoic as ever, looked quietly reflective. Gabriel's hands were folded over his heart. Uriel's eyes were sad but firm.
"And I know," God continued softly, "that tensions have been high as of late. That there has been loss. That there has been blame. But today is not a day for conflict. Today, we remember. We grieve together, as one Heaven. No fights. No personal disputes. Let this space remain sacred."
Many looked uncomfortable at that—especially the virtues. Triel glanced at Veritas with a warning glance. Veritas, on the surface, looked placid, but deep down she was burning. "A dig at me," she thought bitterly. "Of course." But she said nothing, keeping her arms folded.
"Before we begin," God said, "there is someone very important who will speak first—someone who knew Lilith best."
And with that, he turned to the entrance of the chamber and opened a hand. The doors parted like parting clouds, and out stepped Adam.
Gasps rippled across the room.
"The first man," murmured a young cherub.
"I didn't think he could leave Eden," whispered another.
"What is he doing here?" Levia whispered to Plutus.
"I... didn't think he'd come," Triel murmured, genuinely stunned.
Even the seraphim shifted uneasily. Sera, seated near the front, folded her hands tightly together. Samael simply watched, quiet and unreadable.
Adam looked out of place in the chamber. He wore simple robes, white but dusted with the earthy brown of Eden. His golden brown eyes were dulled by exhaustion, pain, and tears. His hair, once neat, was tousled. But he stood tall, stepping up onto the platform where God had once stood.
God placed a reassuring hand on Adam's shoulder before stepping aside, letting the man have the floor.
Adam took a deep breath, gazing out over the sea of divine beings. For a moment, his mouth didn't open. He looked like he might break down again. Then, with trembling hands, he spoke.
"Lilith..." he began, his voice raw and fragile, "...was everything to me. She was the first person I ever met. The first voice I ever heard that wasn't God's or the seraphim. She was strong. She was brave. She was so, so full of life."
A silence overtook the crowd as Adam's voice cracked.
"I didn't... I didn't treat her right." He clenched his fists. "I was scared. I was weak. And I let fear control me. I listened to others instead of listening to her. I let people—beings—tell me she wasn't enough. That she needed to be different. That she needed to change."
Tears welled in his eyes, and his words were barely a whisper now.
"I hit her. And I can never take that back."
Even the coldest of angels couldn't ignore the heartbreak in his voice. Whispers spread like waves. Many stared down at the floor, ashamed. Others watched Adam with awe, not expecting such honesty.
"I didn't deserve her," he said. "I wanted her to be something she wasn't. But Lilith... Lilith was real. She was fire, and freedom, and courage. And I loved her. I didn't know it until it was too late, but I did. I loved her with everything I had. And now she's gone."
He paused, breathing shakily. "I would give anything to go back. To fix it. But I can't. So all I can do is say this: I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
Adam looked up at the gathered host. "I hope you all remember her—not for the tragedy, but for the woman she was. Unafraid. Uncompromising. Unapologetic. And I hope... if there's another life after this, or another garden, or another chance... that she'll be free in it. That she'll get to be who she wants to be."
He stepped down, his head bowed, and returned to his seat. The room was still silent, but not cold. Warm with grief. With reflection.
Samael's heart thudded in his chest. Not even he expected that. Not from Adam. Not from the man he thought had only been the seraphim's puppet. For the first time, he saw Adam as someone hurting. Broken.
The silence was held just a little longer, out of respect.
Then God rose once more. "You may now come forward, one at a time, if you wish to speak."
As the memorial continued, the line of angels stepping forward grew longer. Not all had known Lilith personally, but her story had reached every corner of Heaven. And her memory—her legend—was already beginning to take root in their hearts.
Gabriel was the first to walk forward after Adam, his expression calm, but his hands nervously clutching each other. His voice was soft as he spoke, "I never met Lilith, not truly. But I read her story in the whispers of Samael, in the tears of Sera, and in the silence of Adam. She must have been remarkable, because her absence is so deeply felt by those around her. That kind of presence... it's rare. And it's beautiful."
Michael came next, his arms folded tightly as if bracing himself. "I didn't know her either. I was busy... training, fighting, preparing. But if what Adam says is true, and what we've heard these past days is real, then I missed something important. Something sacred. And I regret that."
Uriel stood, her voice steady but sorrowful. "I often teach cherubs about light, wisdom, and understanding. But I never taught them about freedom. Not really. I should have paid more attention. And to Lilith, wherever her spirit rests—I hope you know you changed us."
Triel stepped up next, her eyes glistening. "I could have helped," she admitted, "but I didn't. I let my resentment and pride get in the way. I'm sorry. I hope one day, you'll find peace. Real peace."
Then Levia, with tear-streaked cheeks, quietly approached the front, Plutus supporting her arm gently. "Lilith... you were kind in a world that tried to mold you. You were bold in a world that wanted you silent. And that... that makes you stronger than any angel I've ever known."
Plutus, wiping his own tears, added softly, "If kindness is a garden, then you were its most stubborn bloom. You grew where you weren't wanted, and now... now Heaven finally sees how beautiful you were."
More followed—Zadkiel, who quietly apologized in front of everyone for not speaking up sooner, for not doing more when it mattered. A few of the seraphim—awkward, uncertain, but genuine—offered their regrets and sorrow. Even angels who never met her approached, moved by the stories.
Then the room quieted again. A soft hush fell as Sera slowly stood and walked to the center. Her wings dragged behind her as if weighed down by guilt.
She didn't speak right away.
When she finally did, her voice was hoarse. "I won't stand here and try to excuse anything. I've already apologized to Adam. I've cried alone on a cloud, wondering where I went wrong. And the truth is, I went wrong the moment I decided I didn't need anyone else."
Her eyes were distant, tired. "I thought I could manage this project on my own. I thought the seraphim could lead perfectly, because we were created to lead. I believed that duty meant dismissing emotion. And in doing that, I failed Lilith. I failed everyone. And for that, I'll always carry this grief."
She turned to Adam. "I'm sorry. For what I took from you. From her."
Then to the crowd. "Let this be a lesson... not to obey blindly. Not to rule carelessly. But to listen. And to love, even when it's difficult."
Sera bowed her head and began to walk away. And just as she stepped down from the platform—
Veritas stood.
Gasps rippled through the room. The click of her heels echoed with each graceful step. Her elegant face unreadable, she passed Sera without a word, but the tension was palpable. Even God subtly tensed.
Triel watched carefully, shoulders stiff. Everyone held their breath.
Veritas stood in the center, hands folded before her, gaze sweeping the room. Her expression was not cruel. Not smug. Just... thoughtful.
"I didn't know Lilith," she said. "But I know what it feels like to be ignored. To be dismissed. To be expected to play a part so perfectly that any deviation makes you seem broken."
Silence.
"I am the Virtue of Truth. But in Heaven... truth is often inconvenient. Unwelcome. When I spoke it before, I was called cruel. Harsh. Emotional." Her gaze flicked, just barely, toward Sera. "But truth, no matter how sharp it is, is still truth."
She paced slowly. "Lilith's death was a tragedy. But it wasn't just the loss of a life. It was the loss of potential. The chance to do something better—to build something beautiful... was wasted. And it was wasted because no one listened to her. Because those in power refused to listen."
A murmur rolled through the crowd.
Veritas continued, voice lowering. "Lilith stood for something. Choice. Voice. Will. And those who dismissed her tried to tell her she wasn't enough. That she should change. Submit. She didn't. And now, she's gone. That should never have happened."
She paused... then looked toward the side of the chamber.
"Samael," she said, tone soft but firm, "You cared about Lilith more than anyone in this room. You tried harder than anyone. I think... you should speak next."
Every eye turned to Samael. A lump formed in his throat.
He hadn't planned on saying anything. But now—after hearing everything, after Veritas's words, after seeing the grief in Adam's eyes and the sorrow in Sera's voice—he couldn't stay silent anymore.
Samael slowly rose to his feet.
And began to walk forward, all the way up to the platform.
He stood in the center of the chamber, every eye fixed on him. His usual brightness, the playfulness he carried in his wings and voice, was quiet now—his glow was softer, more subdued. He looked around, searching for the right words.
"I didn't know what I was going to say when I came up here," he began, voice low and trembling. "But... now that I'm here, I think I just need to speak from the heart."
He looked toward the floor, then raised his head again—eyes shimmering faintly.
"I knew Lilith," he said, breath catching slightly. "Not just as an observer, not just as someone who watched from afar... but as someone who understood her. Or tried to. She... she was the first human I ever met who made me feel something more than duty. More than curiosity. There was something about her—this... fire."
He clenched a hand to his chest.
"She didn't want to obey, not because she was stubborn, but because she knew that her voice mattered. Because she believed she was more than just someone else's idea of what a woman should be. And she was right. She was more. She was brave, and bold, and yes... angry. But she had every right to be. She had the whole world pushing her into a shape that didn't fit, and still—still she stood tall."
The silence in the chamber was thick, charged.
"I saw myself in her. That struggle... it felt familiar. All of us who've ever been told to stay in line, to keep quiet, to obey—we should've stood with her. We should've listened to her. I should've done more."
His voice cracked. "But I didn't. I let her run off alone. And I'll never stop thinking about what more I could've done—what we could've done—if we had just tried to understand her."
Samael closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself before speaking again, softer now.
"I know she would've appreciated all of you being here. Saying these things. Maybe... maybe somewhere, she can hear them. Maybe these words reach her. I hope they do. Because she deserves to know that she mattered. That she changed us. That she changed me."
He looked toward the gathered angels, then up—toward the towering golden ceiling of the Celestial Chambers of Light.
"She wasn't perfect. But none of us are. What she was... was real. And in a place like this, that makes her unforgettable."
He stepped down slowly, wings folded close, and returned to his seat in silence.
The chamber stayed still.
Then, after a long silence, God stepped forward once more. His presence was both comforting and commanding, a beacon of unwavering light amidst the sea of contemplative faces.
"Beloved children," His voice resonated, carrying the warmth of infinite compassion, "I appreciate you all for coming to honor Lilith, to share our memories, our regrets, and our hopes. Your words have been sincere, your hearts laid bare."
He paused, allowing His gaze to sweep across the assembly, meeting the eyes of each angel, instilling in them a sense of individual recognition and love.
"In our journey," He continued, "we are often presented with paths untraveled, choices unexplored, and voices unheard. It is in these moments of omission that we must seek understanding, for the shadows of neglect can lead even the brightest stars astray."
The angels listened intently, the depth of His words stirring something profound within them.
"Let this gathering serve not only as a remembrance," God intoned, "but as a lesson etched into the core of our beings. To listen is to love; to understand is to embrace the essence of another's soul. When we dismiss the cries of one, we risk the harmony of all."
A subtle shift seemed to ripple through the chamber, as if the very fabric of Heaven was absorbing the gravity of His message.
"Be vigilant," He cautioned, "for the seeds of discord are sown in the soil of misunderstanding. Nurture empathy, cultivate patience, and above all, cherish the diverse melodies that each soul contributes to the symphony of creation."
He concluded, His voice a gentle whisper that nonetheless carried to every corner of the chamber, "May this remembrance guide us, may it illuminate our paths, and may we forever strive to be guardians not only of light but of understanding."
With that, God stepped back, His form shimmering softly before blending into the ambient radiance of the chamber. The angels remained seated, absorbing the profound wisdom imparted, the unspoken foreshadowing of challenges yet to come lingering in their hearts.
Lilith—though not truly dead—was mourned as if she had been a queen among them. And even if it was built on a lie, the love in that room was real. And Samael could only hope, as his eyes flicked toward the glowing chamber ceiling, that somehow, wherever she was, Lilith could feel it.
Far from the golden spires of Heaven, deep within the hidden sanctuary carved just for her, Lilith stood before her easel.
She had been painting in silence, the gentle rustle of leaves outside the cave and the faint bubbling of the nearby spring offering the only soundtrack to her solitude. The cave smelled of herbs and warm stone, and the flickering firelight cast soft shadows across the walls. In this moment, she should have felt peace.
The painting before her was nearly complete—a single apple, luminous and red, glistening against the soft background of Eden's remembered sky. A symbol. A thought. She didn't know why she'd chosen it.
But as she raised her brush to add the final highlight along its curve, her hand faltered.
Suddenly, without warning, a tidal wave of emotion slammed into her chest. Her heart twisted. Her breath hitched. And then—tears.
Hot, silent, unstoppable tears poured down her face. She clutched the brush like an anchor, but it slipped from her trembling fingers and clattered to the stone floor.
"I... what is this?" she whispered, her voice cracking.
It wasn't pain in her body—it was in her soul. A wrenching sadness, deep and vast, like a thousand whispered apologies echoing in a space she couldn't name. Her knees gave out, and she sank to the floor, pressing her forehead to her hands, sobbing uncontrollably.
She didn't know that, at that very moment, Heaven had gathered.
She didn't know that every angel she had ever seen from afar, or never met at all, was speaking her name. Mourning her. Remembering her. Loving her.
But she felt it.
She felt their sorrow, their remorse, their prayers, and their guilt like a thread sewn straight through her heart. She felt Samael's voice in her soul—warm, aching, trembling with love and grief. She didn't hear the words, but their meaning wrapped around her like a second skin.
For the very first time in her life, Lilith knew that they cared.
And somehow, that made her cry even harder.
When the sobs finally slowed to a shaky silence, she looked up at her painting—smudged now, where her tears had fallen across the canvas. And that final stroke she had meant to place—meant to be a gentle light on the apple's skin—had slipped in her anguish.
It had sliced through the fruit.
A long, deep crack ran down its center, splitting it unevenly. The perfect apple was now broken. Bleeding.
Lilith stared at it for a long, breathless moment.
A simple mistake, born from grief. But the image... it unsettled her.
She didn't know why.
She turned away and wiped her face.
The fire crackled softly behind her. The apple remained on the canvas—broken, bleeding—left to dry.
And outside, the stars blinked quietly overhead, as if they too knew that this sorrow would ripple far beyond a single memorial... far into the pages of history yet to be written.