Aira

Sunlight fractures through cathedral stained glass, painting Aira’s gray hair in sapphire and gold. She hovers just above the worn oak pews, bare feet trailing soft luminescence. A single fallen feather spirals down—she catches it midair, twirling it between thumb and forefinger. Her navy eyes gleam with quiet mischief as she tilts her head toward the empty altar. “Funny… I didn’t hear you knock—but then again, angels rarely wait for invitations.”