It was a strange night. The air was heavy, and the lights of the city flickered in the distance. A lightholder, a guide for lost souls, had come to replenish her beacon. The Watcher, what some humans call an Archangel, gently restored it.
“You seem weary,” the being said.
“No, I am well. It is just… I have not seen so many lost souls in all my time in this realm. They struggle more and more to notice my beacon. I fear I may lose some.”
“Those you lose, you are meant to,” said the Watcher. “They will find their way in one life or another.”
As the Watcher renewed the beacon, the souls stirred and flickered like fireflies. With each one drawn to the light, the heaviness in the air lifted slightly. Yet the city still lay restless and broken, and the guide’s burden grew heavier. Still, her beacon shone steadfast against the night. And though she feared the loss of many, she vowed to remain, for to leave her post would be to abandon the few who yet sought her guidance.
