The morning bells of Laterano echoed like drops of water in an empty room.
Not loud, not quiet either—just there, floating between pillars and towers, slipping through halos that never dimmed.
Mostima opened her eyes before the third bell rang.
It wasn't the sound that woke her.
She was always aware—even before the first chime.
Her room was still. Barely furnished.
The white walls held only a single painting, marked with an old Sankta phrase:
"No voice comes from the sky unless it was already written."
Mostima didn't believe that.
She sat up. Her halo lit up slowly.
She wasn't hungry. She didn't feel like speaking.
But she knew, in a few seconds… Exu would knock.
Sure enough—
Tap, tap.
"Mosti~ you awake?"
The door cracked open. Exu peeked in—messy pink hair, small wings twitching gently behind her.
"We're going to the library. Me, Fi, and... if you want to join."
Mostima gave a small nod. Nothing more.
Exu smiled and disappeared. The door closed softly.
Mostima rose, washed her face with cold water.
No teeth brushing. No hair combing.
She didn't feel like she needed it.
Outside, the sky was clear—but not warm.
A thin mist hung in the air, like remnants of a dream that never ended properly.
Laterano's library was like the belly of an old whale—quiet, vast, and filled with the weight of something best left undisturbed.
Fiammetta had already claimed a seat near the window, reading a book titled "The Structure of Theology and the Arithmetic of Will."
Her eyes were sharp. No wings, no halo. She didn't need them.
Her presence was always like a feathered blade—calm, but ready to cut.
Mostima sat across from her.
Exu dropped between them, sprawling a bit, immediately rummaging through a pile of books.
"I'm looking for the ones with pictures," she declared casually.
Fiammetta didn't react.
Mostima opened a thin book—but didn't read.
She flipped through the pages without looking.
Her mind was elsewhere.
"Fi," Exu suddenly said, "do you think the legend of the 'fallen angel' is real?"
Fiammetta raised a brow. "Just a story to scare kids."
"But if it were real, and a Sankta did fall… whose fault would it be?"
"Their own," Fiammetta replied, without hesitation.
Mostima looked up. "What if they didn't want to fall… but the sky pushed them anyway?"
Fiammetta went quiet.
Exu turned to Mostima. "Then they need a friend to catch them."
Mostima stared at her. Long and quiet.
"…What if they're too heavy?"
"Then the friend just needs stronger hands."
"What if their wings tear while catching them?"
"Then we stop flying and walk. Walk together."
Silence.
Fiammetta returned to her book.
But Mostima kept watching Exu.
And for a rare, brief moment—the voices that usually whispered behind her thoughts… went still.
Whether from fear, or because they, too, were listening.
They didn't talk much for the rest of their time at the library.
But it wasn't tense.
Just... presence.
When they finally stepped out of the stone building, the sun was leaning westward.
Their shadows stretched long down the clean paths, like timelines not yet written.
"Fi, heading home early?" Exu asked, arms behind her head.
Fiammetta nodded. "My father said dinner together today."
"Okay. Tell him I said hi."
Fiammetta walked off without a word.
No wave.
But her pace wasn't hurried.
Mostima and Exu walked the opposite direction.
The streets were quiet.
Small birds flew overhead, carefully avoiding the glow of halos.
"Mosti…"
"Yeah?"
"You can talk to me, you know. If those voices come back."
Mostima turned. "If you heard strange voices in your head... who would you tell?"
"You."
Mostima smiled gently.
"They sometimes say I'm not worthy of wings," she murmured.
"You want me to yell at them?"
A small laugh. "If you got angry, the sky might split open."
"Let it split. I'll forge you a new halo myself."
They stopped at a small bridge.
Beneath it, water flowed softly over smooth stones.
"Exu."
"Mm?"
"Sometimes I'm... afraid. Not of the voices. But because I know I don't want to lose you."
"Then don't go."
Mostima lowered her gaze. "If one day I change… I want you to remember me like this."
Exu stepped closer.
Without a word, she reached for Mostima's hand—something she rarely ever did.
And this time…
Mostima let her.
That night, Mostima sat in her room.
Her halo was dim.
But moonlight spilled through the window, calm and silver.
She scribbled something in her notebook.
First line: voice.
Second line: silence.
Third line: Exu.
And below them, one final thought:
Is it possible… for a light to exist that doesn't come from the sky?