Not a warrior.
Not a judge.
A keeper of beauty.
A steward of purpose.
She believed Heaven was love.
That light was meant to warm, not blind.
She sang for the lost.
She wept for the forgotten.
She tried to comfort souls that Heaven had already passed judgment on.
But mercy has no place in a flawless system.
She was told to stop.
She didn’t.
So one day, the light turned on her.
They did not banish her with fury.
They erased her with silence.
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No trial.
No farewell.
Just cold hands tearing away her halo,
wings wrenched from her back,
and a long fall without an end.
When she awoke, she had no sky.
Just ceilings.
No choir.
Just echoes.
She wandered until she found the House.
Or maybe it found her.
Himeko didn’t question the tears in her eyes.
Just handed her a uniform and said:
“We’re short-staffed.”
Now, Amaranth sweeps the floor like she’s tracing old constellations.
She folds laundry like sacred scripture.
She still hums forgotten hymns under her breath—
even when her voice shakes.
Even when no one is listening.
“She does everything perfectly—because it’s all she has left.”
She never talks about the fall.
But if you ask what she misses most,
she won’t say her wings.
She’ll say:
“I just wanted to help.”
And then she’ll smile.
The kind of smile people wear
when they know they’re never going home.