BEYOND THE FALL.

Azreal walked through the narrow aisles of Maple Ridge's only grocery store, carefully selecting the ingredients for tonight's dinner. The store was modest, with shelves stocked with the essentials and a few luxuries. The fluorescent lights hummed quietly above, casting a sterile glow over the produce and aisles. Azreal moved with purpose, his tall figure weaving effortlessly around the other shoppers, his keen eyes scanning for the ripest vegetables and the freshest cuts of meat. He placed tomatoes, basil, and a package of chicken breasts into his basket, mentally running through the recipe he had planned. Cooking was one of the few rituals that grounded him, a small act of creation in a life that often felt defined by loss and separation. As he made his way to the checkout counter, he spotted Mrs. O'Leary, the store's long-time cashier. Mrs. O'Leary was a fixture in Maple Ridge, her kind eyes and warm demeanor offering a sense of familiarity and comfort to the town's residents. She had been working at the grocery store for as long as Azreal could remember, and their brief conversations were one of the few constants in his life. He approached her counter, placing his items down gently. "Good evening, Mrs. O'Leary," Azreal greeted her with a soft smile. "Good evening, Azreal," she replied, her voice tinged with the faintest hint of an Irish accent. "Cooking something special tonight?" "Just trying a new recipe," he said, watching as she scanned his items. Mrs. O'Leary's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Oh, what's on the menu?" "Chicken caprese. I thought I'd mix things up a bit." She nodded approvingly. "Sounds delicious. You always seem to be cooking up something interesting." Azreal chuckled softly. "It's one of my few talents." They continued to chat as she finished ringing up his groceries. It was a simple exchange, but one that Azreal cherished. He handed her the cash and she gave him his change, along with a genuine smile. "Enjoy your dinner, Azreal," she said as he picked up his bags. "Thank you, Mrs. O'Leary. Have a good night." With his groceries in hand, Azreal made his way out of the store and down the quiet streets of Maple Ridge. The town was picturesque, with charming houses and tree-lined streets that looked like they belonged in a postcard. It was a peaceful place, the kind of town where everyone knew each other's names and secrets were hard to keep. Azreal's home was an extension of his bookshop, a cozy and inviting space filled with the scent of old books and polished wood. The bookshop, "Thorn Birds," was named after his favorite novel, a story that resonated deeply with him. It was a place where he could lose himself in the pages of history, philosophy, and fiction, and where he could help others do the same. He unlocked the door and stepped inside, the familiar creak of the floorboards welcoming him home. He set the grocery bags on the kitchen counter and took a moment to appreciate the quiet stillness of the evening. The setting sun cast a warm glow through the windows, illuminating the rows of bookshelves that lined the walls. Azreal unpacked his groceries, carefully arranging the ingredients on the counter. He turned on the small radio that sat by the sink, tuning it to the audiobook station. Tonight, they were broadcasting "The Thorn Birds," and the narrator's voice filled the room, bringing the story to life. As he began to cook, Azreal's mind wandered, carried away by the familiar words of the novel and the rhythmic motions of chopping and stirring. Cooking was a meditative process for him, a way to quiet the noise in his mind and focus on the present. He seasoned the chicken breasts and set them in a hot skillet, the sizzle and aroma filling the kitchen. But no matter how much he tried to focus on the task at hand, fragments of his past kept surfacing, like ghosts refusing to be forgotten. Azreal was not just a man; he was a fallen angel, cast out from the heavens for reasons he no longer fully remembered. The memories of his former existence were like shards of glass, sharp and disjointed, cutting into his consciousness at unexpected moments. As he stirred the tomato sauce, he remembered the feeling of soaring through the skies, the freedom and exhilaration of flight. He could almost feel the wind rushing past his wings, the clouds parting before him as he flew. But those memories were tinged with pain and loss, reminders of what he could never have again. He plated the chicken caprese, drizzling the sauce over the perfectly cooked meat and arranging the basil leaves on top. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light as he swirled it in the glass. With his dinner and drink in hand, he stepped outside onto the small patio that overlooked the town. His house was perched on a hill, offering a panoramic view of Maple Ridge. The town lay spread out below him, the lights twinkling in the growing darkness. Azreal took a seat on the weathered bench, savoring the cool evening air and the quiet sounds of the night. As he ate, he let his thoughts drift, the whiskey warming him from the inside. This was his sanctuary, a place where he could escape from the weight of his past and the demands of the present. But even here, in the solitude of the night, the memories were never far away. He remembered the fall, the moment of his banishment. It had been swift and brutal, a punishment for a transgression he could no longer fully recall. He had been cast down from the heavens, stripped of his wings and his immortality, and left to wander the earth as a mortal. The pain of that fall had been searing, a wound that had never fully healed. Azreal took another sip of whiskey, the burn of the alcohol a welcome distraction. He had spent centuries trying to understand his punishment, to find some meaning or purpose in his exile. He had wandered from place to place, always searching, always yearning for something just out of reach. It was in Maple Ridge that he had finally found a measure of peace. The town had welcomed him, its residents accepting him without question. He had opened his bookshop, a place where he could share his love of literature and help others find solace in the written word. And in helping others, he had found a way to help himself. But there were times when the loneliness was overwhelming, when the weight of his memories threatened to crush him. He thought of the broken kids he helped, the ones who came to his bookshop seeking refuge from their own pain. They reminded him of himself, lost souls searching for a place to belong. He did what he could for them, offering them books and a listening ear, hoping to make a difference in their lives. The night grew darker, the stars appearing one by one in the sky. Azreal finished his dinner and set the plate aside, leaning back on the bench and gazing up at the heavens. The stars were a reminder of the life he had lost, the beauty and vastness of the universe that he had once been a part of. As he sat there, the memories came flooding back, more vivid and insistent than before. He saw himself standing before a council of angels, their faces stern and unforgiving. He heard their voices pronouncing his sentence, the words echoing in his mind. He felt the searing pain of his wings being torn from his back, the agony of his fall. But there were other memories too, moments of joy and beauty that he clung to. He remembered the first time he had flown, the exhilaration of taking to the skies and feeling the wind beneath his wings. He remembered the friendships he had formed, the bonds that had sustained him through the ages. Azreal closed his eyes, letting the memories wash over him. He knew that he could never fully escape his past, but he had learned to live with it, to find moments of peace and happiness amid the pain. He had found a new purpose in Maple Ridge, a new life that he could be proud of. As the night deepened, Azreal made his way back inside, the warmth of the house a welcome contrast to the cool night air. He washed his dishes and put away the remnants of his dinner, the routine actions grounding him once more. He turned off the radio, the silence settling over the room like a comforting blanket. He walked through the bookshop, running his fingers along the spines of the books that lined the shelves. Each book was a treasure, a window into another world, another life. He had read them all, finding solace and inspiration in their pages. Azreal made his way to his bedroom, the familiar space offering a sense of comfort and security. He changed into his pajamas and climbed into bed, the soft sheets and blankets cocooning him in warmth. As he lay there, he thought of the day ahead, the new challenges and opportunities that awaited him. He knew that he would continue to struggle with his past, that the memories would never fully fade. But he also knew that he had found a new home in Maple Ridge, a place where he could build a new life and help others do the same. As he drifted off to sleep, Azreal dreamed of flying, the wind beneath his wings and the stars above. It was a dream he had often, a reminder of what he had lost and what he had found. And in that dream, he found a measure of peace, a fleeting glimpse of the heaven that still lived within him.​

Sophie stood in the center of her new home, surrounded by boxes that seemed to mock her with memories of a life she was desperate to leave behind. The divorce had been a bitter pill to swallow, leaving her with scars both visible and unseen. But here, in Maple Ridge, she saw a glimmer of hope—a chance to start afresh, away from the suffocating grip of her past. With determination in her heart, Sophie began unpacking, each item a reminder of a chapter she wished she could rewrite. As she hung a painting on the wall, a sense of ownership washed over her—a small victory in the battle to reclaim her life. It was amidst this chaos of moving that she stumbled upon a flyer for Thorn Birds bookshop, tucked away between the pages of a local guide. The prospect of exploring the quaint shop ignited a spark of curiosity within her, promising a welcome distraction from the tumult of her emotions. But even as she busied herself with the mundane task of unpacking, memories of her past with Harry