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Summary
They’re in the garden again, the porch swing rocking gently in the breeze, and Angel knows he’s dreaming it all over. Number sixteen in the last three months, but he’s barely keeping count anymore.
He sits down on the swing’s dusty cushions, looks up at the string of lights above him like a ritual. Every time they seem dimmer, and he can’t remember whether the flowerpot on the stairs was red or white - why can’t he remember?
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OR: Husk’s been gone for quite a while now. Angel copes through his nightly visits until those stop coming, too.
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Bookmark Notes:
ouch ouch ouch ow ow