She only saw the angel twice.
She was six when he landed in the back garden with a crash, and the splintering of apple tree branches – she rushed outside, barefoot in the dew-soaked grass, and saw him slumped there with a crooked wing. Before the sun rose she patched him up with a strip torn from the bottom of her nightgown and sent him on his way with a kiss to his cheek.
The better part of a century passed. When she saw him again he was by her deathbed, clutching a new white robe to replace her torn nightgown.
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