Summary: An angel of Death makes an utter mess of things. (Enjoy)
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I closed the door with a sigh.
A hard habit to break, breathing.
Angels don't need to do it, see - though we have everything we need to do it with.
I still haven't learned how not to, though. Lucius always jokes that I'm still a "fresh" one, and that I'll eventually forget.
I smiled wryly to myself, and turned to face the corridor.
I tugged my shawl, settled it more comfortably around my shoulders, took another habitual breath, and sighed it out again.
Old habits die hard.
Like living.
I glanced once more at the unremarkable wooden surface of the door, then ambled away.
Stanley Lee Pearson had gone out quietly, in the end. Old, alone - his only surviving child estranged since his wife died seven years
