Through the crack between the closet doors, she saw him in the moonlight as he scanned the room. Both listened closely with bated breath. He drunkenly reached for the drawer of the nightstand, his face full of rage, while his wife held the pistol with trembling hands.



Lying battered on the war torn streets, indistinguishable from the homeless, the victims were, to the angels, faceless. They retreated, disgusted by the human race.

Seeing friends, neighbors, hurt and lost, in familiar streets, an old man resolved to help those in need.

Only one Halo shone brightly that night.