“She asked me to watch over you,” Angel continued, crushing the cigarette. “She said you would be shy. That you would hide from life. That one day, you might come looking for the truth. And she asked me – begged me – not to tell you who I was until you were ready to hear it.”
But three weeks ago, something had cracked that silence. Angel.Summers.Tyna Enquetes.tres.privees Le.client.timide
Angel opened the door.
He was young—maybe twenty-eight—with wireframe glasses that kept fogging up from the humidity. His trench coat was brand new, still creased from the store fold. His name, he would later whisper, didn’t matter. But his problem did. “She asked me to watch over you,” Angel
Angel Summers (the modern one) felt the hair on her arms rise. She hated coincidence. But she loved pattern. That one day, you might come looking for the truth