The angels left the cemetery yesterday, I don’t think anyone saw them go except for me. There were other people around but they all seemed preoccupied with thoughts and stones and flowers.
The angels stepped down from monuments and mausoleums and walked quietly away.
One of them passed by where I was sitting and left a single feather in its wake, soft but cold and grey as stone. I pressed it carefully between the pages of my notebook but it was gone when I got home.
Today the news is calling the disappearance thievery or vandalism or performance art.
I doubt they’d believe me if I informed them that the angels left of their own accord.
Besides, it’s not my business. I’m sure the angels had their reasons.
Perhaps they were needed elsewhere.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.