[x]
The thief awoke one morning, with the sunlight streaming over him. The golden warmth felt soft and lovely on his face.
But it was wrong.
The curtains shouldn’t be open.
They had been closed the night before, when the thief curled up under the sheet on his double bed. They had been closed the night before that, casting shadows on the empty room. They had been closed every night before that, all the times when the thief had fallen on the bed and let sleep wrap him again. He had closed them one night, weeks and weeks and maybe months and possibly a year or two ago, and he had never touched them since.
This morning, the light from the window spilled onto his face, and into the open doorway. With a groggy sigh, the thief sat up, blinking in the orange light. He ran a sleepy hand through his mottled, unkempt hair, slowly glancing about the room. Everything was quiet, everything was still. But it was somehow not quite so cold as all the other mornings.
Pulling on some loose trousers, and neglecting to fasten them, the thief padded out of the room and wandered down the hall. He did not know what he expected, but he knew what he feared. Or perhaps it was what he hoped for. He didn’t know anymore, even now as it faced him.
In the kitchen, across the room, stood the angel. He was working at something, the thief noticed first of all. Tea. He was dropping tea into a couple mugs, and the kettle steamed calmly on the stove next to him. The second thing the thief noticed about him was him. Everything. Everything about him that the thief had neither the knowledge, the eloquence, nor the energy to put into words. Not even the desire, for the repercussions it might bring.
The angel turned, and saw him standing there. “Good morning,” he said in a voice as soft as his smile.
“Is it?” the thief clipped back, almost surprised at his own voice.
The angel grabbed a mug by the handle and gestured with it toward the windows. “The sun is shining beautifully, the world is relaxed and quiet for once, and I’ve just made us tea.” He turned as the kettle began to shake, and poured steaming hot water into the mugs.
The thief looked at the tea doubtfully. “Maybe so. But it doesn’t matter.”
The angel tilted his head.
“You’re not really here,” the thief answered. “You’re not really back.”
“Like I said,” the angel whispered, stepping closer and handing him a cup of tea. “Good morning.”
