Grace
of rust
Grace fell a long time ago, though no one agrees on why.
Her wings never fully came back — grey now, moth-worn, dragging faint shadows across whatever ground she walks. She wears roses over one eye, dark as bruises, each with something else looking out from the center. She still wears her cross. Old habits, or old proof.
He smiles more than you'd expect. It's not always comforting.
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