The Mourning Star

Brain On Fire

My only regret? I realized it too late. Far, far too late. I wish I could beg for your forgiveness. I would fall to my knees in tears at your touch, at the sound of your voice calling me home, even a simple, "You're so clever, Angel" when I explain how I have organized my bookshop.

In the stillness of the night, I find solace in the thought of you more often. You have shown me the worth of my heart and illuminated the path to happiness. Your love here on Earth has been my greatest treasure, a precious gift that has filled my days with joy and warmth.

But, my dearest, I am ever aware that one day, as the wheel of time turns, I must leave this earthly realm. Mustn't I? Mustn't I give it all away because it is the right thing for me to do? It is then that I wonder, could you take the love that I hold in my heart and send it up to be with you?

Nothing in this world comes without a cost, but my love, my dear, is freely given, an eternal gift from my soul to yours. These days it has been harder and harder to go on living without you here. Every time I sit in my office, I remember your silly smile behind a glass of wine.

Is it worth going on if you are not here?

With all the love in my heart,

Aziraphale

A soft sigh escapes Crowley's lips, and he leans back in the armchair. The room is cloaked in the dim glow of the streetlamp outside, casting shadows that dance with the lamplight. His grip on this particular letter is strong, almost tearing the paper apart. His lips start to quiver in biting back emotion. He is so angry with Aziraphale, so why does it feel like he is heartbroken and the cause of so much pain?

Crowley's gaze is fixed on the words before him, unmoving. The room, once a sanctuary, seems to close in around him as shadows cast by the flickering light dancing on the walls.

Dearest Crowley,

This is my favorite photo of us. I want to lay it to rest with your memory, with your smile. In my mind, I am still sitting with you on the front porch of the bookshop watching humanity go by. Crowley, I miss you. I miss your scent, your idiot antics.
Please, don't let me forget you.

-Az

The words on the page seem to echo in the silence, each sentence a reminder of the intricate dance they've performed through time. The anger, though palpable, is overshadowed by the realization that the pain runs deep, a river of emotions that refuses to be dammed. He pulls out the photo that was behind the letter in the envelope.

The photograph is a snapshot frozen in time, capturing a moment that lingers in the sepia-toned embrace of nostalgia. Crowley holds it delicately between his fingers, the edges slightly worn from the passage of years. In the frame, there's an air of simplicity and genuine warmth that contrasts with the complexities of his existence.

The setting is the front porch of the bookshop, a haven that has undoubtedly witnessed the ebb and flow of their unconventional companionship. The background is adorned with potted plants and the well-loved exterior of the bookshop, its sign declaring an open invitation to those seeking refuge in the written word.

Crowley, plain as can be, with his trademark sunglasses perched atop his head, leans casually against the railing of the porch. His attire reflects a casual elegance, a tailored jacket hinting at style. A half-smile plays on his lips, a rare moment of vulnerability captured in the frame.

Beside him, Aziraphale exudes an air of refined charm. His presence is wrapped in a well-fitted waistcoat and bowtie, a testament to the angelic grace he carries even in the earthly realm. His eyes gaze at Crowley with a mixture of fondness and a hint of something more profound as he seems to offer him a key to the bookshop.