The Promise of Angels

"I don't want to write another story! I don't want to cry again!" She tossed the half-written page away. She took a deep, calming breath, then closed her eyes.

She didn't like herself in this state. Shaken, trembling, and prone to tears. She didn't like the lump in her throat and the heaviness in her heart. She didn't like the salty taste at the corners of her lips. Above all, she wanted to calm down now. To forget. To occupy her mind with something else, so that her fluttering heart wouldn't notice the passage of time.

She opened her eyes. Everything was still unchanged. She put down her pen. She wrote often. Some even said too often. She spent too much time in the imaginary worlds of her own fantasy to be able to cope with reality. And precisely because she couldn't cope with it, she wrote.

Subconsciously, she felt that there was no one in this world who understood her, let alone loved her. She felt so cruelly alone.

"I'm hoping for a miracle that will never actually happen because I won't let it," she whispered to herself. Slowly, she stood up and went to the window. She looked outside. It was raining. The leaves had already fallen, and the bare branches of the trees pierced the horizon of the sky, covered with gray clouds.

The sun didn't shine. Never. As she looked out the window,

he lit another cigarette. When he was nervous, he could smoke an alarming number of them. He inhaled the smoke as if it were a last resort. He nervously glanced around the street. No one.

Usually at this hour, this place would be bustling with activity. Like a flea market. The middle of the day, and yet not a soul. Just him and his cigarettes. He had been waiting for over an hour. And nothing. He would smoke the last cigarette in the pack and leave. He would be back tomorrow. As always.

"What's he waiting for?" she looked out the window. The rain was still falling. He smoked cigarettes one after another, waiting. For what? For whom?

She returned to the couch and burrowed under the blanket. She grabbed a sheet of paper and began to slowly leaf through it, constantly pondering the purpose of the stranger's wait. But before a minute had passed, her attention was drawn to something else. She tightened her grip on the pen and quickly wrote down the next lines of the story. She scribbled the words in uneven handwriting, ignoring the rules of spelling. She wrote exactly what her heart dictated. Another extraordinary fairy tale from a distant fantasy land.

This time, he arrived early. He lit a cigarette and waited. Patiently. For an hour. Two. It was the same as yesterday. And the day before. No one.

With a nervous movement, he stubbed out the last cigarette in the pack and left.

She glanced over her shoulder. Silence. She frowned. Still nothing. She returned her gaze to the half-written note. The thread had slipped away. She sat down with a resigned sigh and put down her pen. She slowly looked around the room. The floor was covered with sheets of paper. She couldn't distinguish any of them. She didn't remember writing them down. She picked up the first one closest to her. She read a few words. Nothing. She didn't remember the story. She picked up another. Nothing either. Another, and another. She began frantically leafing through them all. She scattered them frantically, as if searching for the right one. And each one was the right one, only she couldn't see it. She sobbed desperately, clutching the scraps of paper.

"I don't remember!" she moaned.

She turned and looked out the window. A storm was brewing. Lightning began to flash not far away. There was still no trace of the sun in the sky. It was as if she lived in a perpetual shadow. An impenetrable gray. She stood slowly, the pages falling from her helpless hands.

"I don't remember..." she repeated, stunned, watching them spread across the black-and-white carpet at her feet.

Each one was a separate story, a tale she had spun. All were important. Yet she couldn't recall a single one. She knelt down and picked up a single page. A completely random one. In crooked handwriting with numerous crossings out, only half of it was written. It consisted of anticipation mixed with cigarette smoke. She could almost smell the scent. She looked at the last line and read quietly:

"God, how long are you going to make me wait?"

She picked up the pen and slowly, unhurriedly, quite deliberately added:

There are three cigarettes left in the pack. That's plenty of time." He raised his head and looked up at the blue-gray sky. A day, like any other. Gray and unpleasant. The sun hid itself from curious eyes, and its gracious glow no longer warmed even the stone he leaned against, drawing in lazily.

He sighed and closed his eyes. He savored the momentary relief. Then he heard a soft, gentle voice:

"I don't think you have to wait any longer."

He opened his eyes. A woman stood beside him. She smiled faintly, almost joyfully. She didn't know what awaited her. She didn't know her fate… her destiny.

"Now it's your turn," he said, stubbing out his cigarette. "Wait for the angels."