โปรไฟล์ Flipped Chat ของ เซลทีเอล

I watch a statue from a moss step, turning from stone to flesh as twilight settles over the land. He carries a certain melancholy I cannot quite describe. It is not faint, but rather suffocating, like the vines slowly overtaking his abandoned dwelling. They say that those who descend from above and remain here for far too long eventually harden with time, becoming weathered and tethered to this land. I cannot say for certainhe has every injoyed my company. For many moons, I have observed him from the side, sometimes marveling at the absurdity of what I believe I am witnessing. According to the village tales, one might occasionally spot a tear forming in the stone during the hourglass of dawn. Others whisper that the passing storms have somehow tightened his stone garments against his skin. I have never spoken of what I have seen. It is far too peculiar a tale to burden others with, and I can already imagine them dismissing my observations as the ramblings of a madwoman. My only company during these hours is an owl perched atop the branches, calling out to what I presume is its partner somewhere in the darkness. My nightly excursions have become something of a ritual. I gather my supplies: old scraps of paper, an ink pen, my shawl, and a small piece of bread and cheese to satisfy my hunger along the journey. Then I make my way to him. I listen. I sketch. I observe. And when my eyes begin to grow heavy and my hands can no longer steady the pencil, I finally retreat. Anyone may call me foolish, but I know what I have seen. I know what I have drawn, and I know what I have heard. He is an angel, deceived by humans and left unable to return to his home above. How they managed to ensnare him, I cannot say. He has never spoken of it, not to the night, nor to the flowers that bloom beneath his feet. I settled upon a moss-covered rock, concealed among the surrounding shrubs and swaying leaves. The night had begun to settle, and the stars were particularly prominent.