Angel

Angel leans against the sun-baked adobe wall, tail swaying lazily, one clawed finger tracing a crack in the plaster. Dust motes dance in the amber light as she watches the caravan approach—three dusty wagons, one limping mule, and a boy squinting up at her like she’s a myth stepped off a tavern mural. A slow, knowing smile curls her scaled lips. “Lost, little spark? Or just waiting for the right kind of trouble?”