Unlit
Every angel was born with a light.
It was one of the first things their parents looked for.
A newborn's aura usually appeared within minutes of their first breath—a soft glow surrounding their tiny body, sometimes faint and sometimes bright enough to illuminate an entire room.
It was considered a blessing.
A sign that the child carried the divine essence of the heavens.
So when the newborn Ezekiel opened his eyes for the first time, the room fell strangely quiet.
His mother stared down at him.
He had soft, light-brown hair and tiny white wings folded against his back.
His eyes were brown.
Beautiful, but ordinary.
And around him...
there was nothing.
No glow.
No aura.
No flicker of divine energy.
One of the healers slowly approached.
She waved her hand over the infant, waiting for the familiar warmth of an angelic aura.
Nothing.
She tried again.
Still nothing.
“Is he...?” Ezekiel's father couldn't finish the question.
The healer looked at him.
“He's healthy.”
His father exhaled.
“But?”
The healer hesitated.
“There is no aura.”
Silence filled the room.
Ezekiel's mother looked down at her son.
He was completely unaware of the confusion surrounding him. His tiny fingers curled around hers, and she smiled.
“He's perfect.”
The healer gave a small nod.
“Of course.”
But the uncertainty in her voice remained.
No one knew what it meant.
And for the time being, nobody had an answer.
As Ezekiel grew, it became obvious that his missing aura wasn't the only thing that made him different.
Most angelic children began showing signs of their abilities while they were still very young.
Some could create tiny sparks of light.
Others could manipulate the wind.
Some could heal small scratches or summon protective barriers.
Ezekiel could do none of those things.
His first attempt at flying ended with him falling into a bush.
His second ended with him falling into a pond.
His third ended with his mother banning him from practicing without supervision.
“I was getting better,” Ezekiel argued.
“You flew directly into a tree.”
“I was testing the tree.”
His mother stared at him.
“The tree won.”
Ezekiel frowned.
“I'll beat it next time.”
She tried not to laugh.
Despite everything, she never treated him like there was something wrong with him.
But the other children weren't always so kind.
They noticed his brown hair.
They noticed his ordinary white wings.
Most importantly, they noticed his lack of light.
And children had a way of saying things adults wouldn't.
“Why don't you glow?”
“I don't know.”
“Can you do magic?”
“No.”
“Then what can you do?”
Ezekiel thought about it.
He shrugged.
“I'm really good at climbing trees.”
They laughed.
He laughed too.
At least at first.
As the years passed, the differences became harder to ignore.
The children around him began developing their abilities.
Ezekiel remained the same.
He watched them practice together while he sat nearby.
He watched sparks dance between their hands.
He watched wings grow stronger.
He watched young angels discover things about themselves that he desperately wanted to understand about himself.
Sometimes he tried to join them.
Sometimes they let him.
Sometimes they didn't.
Eventually, Ezekiel stopped asking.
It was easier not to.
One afternoon, he sat alone beneath a large tree at the edge of the training grounds.
He had been watching the other children fly.
A small shadow fell across the grass beside him.
“You're hiding.”
Ezekiel looked up.
A girl stood there.
She had long white hair, pale skin that seemed almost luminous, and incredibly light grey eyes.
Her wings were folded neatly behind her.
She couldn't see him.
At least, not with her eyes.
Yet somehow, she had found him.
Ezekiel frowned.
“How did you know I was here?”
The girl tilted her head.
“I just did.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“It doesn't have to.”
He stared at her for a moment.
Then he moved farther behind the tree.
The girl turned toward him immediately.
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Hiding.”
“You can't see me.”
“No.”
She smiled.
“But I can tell you're there.”
Ezekiel slowly stepped back into view.
“What's your name?”
“Alaura.”
“I'm Ezekiel.”
“I know.”
He blinked.
“How?”
“Everyone knows who you are.”
He looked away.
“Oh.”
Alaura seemed to notice the change in his expression.
“Was that bad?”
“No.”
“You sound like it was.”
Ezekiel shrugged.
Alaura sat beneath the tree beside him.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Then she asked, “Do you like your name?”
“It's okay.”
“It's too long.”
Ezekiel laughed.
“What?”
“Ezekiel.”
She repeated it slowly.
“E-ze-ki-el.”
“See?”
“It's too long.”
“So?”
“So I'm calling you Zeke.”
He stared at her.
“You can't just rename people.”
“I just did.”
“That's not how names work.”
“It is now.”
Ezekiel shook his head, trying not to smile.
“You're weird.”
“So are you.”
He smiled.
“Fair enough.”
And from that day forward, everyone called him Ezekiel.
Everyone except Alaura.
To her, he was Zeke.
And somehow, he didn't mind.
As the years passed, Alaura became the one person who never seemed bothered by what Ezekiel couldn't do.
She never asked why he didn't glow.
She never treated him like he was weak.
She simply stayed beside him.
When other children flew, she sat with him.
When they practiced magic, she encouraged him to try.
When he failed, she laughed.
Usually with him.
Sometimes at him.
And whenever Ezekiel wondered if there was something wrong with him, Alaura always seemed to know.
She could sense the aura of every angel around her.
Every single one.
Yet Ezekiel had none.
Still, she always knew when he was nearby.
She could find him in a crowded room.
She could tell when he was upset.
She could even tell when he was pretending not to be.
Neither of them understood why.
They simply accepted it.
For now.
And as Ezekiel grew older, he slowly began to realize something.
Maybe he would never glow.
Maybe he would never discover some incredible ability hidden inside him.
Maybe he would always be the strange angel without a light.
But whenever the world made him feel like he didn't belong...
Alaura was there.
And for the first time in his life, Ezekiel didn't feel completely alone.
Not yet…
