Eventually, the angels grew weary of waiting. Their distant white glow was tainted by the cruel reality they observed. They did not understand, could not comprehend, could not fathom. What was the problem? What was the necessity? They turned to their Father for answers, but He only returned their gaze.

*Wise is the Father who lets His children catch the fish, rather than simply placing it on the table.*

Years, decades, centuries, millennia, eons—longer than eons, longer still, and even longer than that.

Patience wore thin, and for the first time in existence, one of His children rose to meet His gaze.

---

"Meow." A beautiful gray cat purred affectionately at a teenager dressed in a gray sweatshirt. Its soft rumble contrasted with the classical music playing from an old vinyl record player.

"Meoow… Want some ham already?" The teenager placed a slice of ham on the chair where the cat lounged, as casually as laying a slice of bread on a plate.

"Seems like a good day, doesn't it?" After finishing his ham-and-egg scramble in the tiny kitchen, he carefully set the plate on the glass table, its surface dusty from days of neglect.

He sat down and began eating, wrapping the eggs and ham in a double-layered corn tortilla. He added ketchup and red hot sauce.

He ate quietly, savoring the soothing classical music he loved so much.

His left hand was a metallic black—an advanced prosthetic gifted to him years ago.

After preparing everything for his cat, he left his apartment with a piano case slung over his shoulder. It didn't seem heavy, perhaps from years of carrying it.

He yawned, wiping the tired tears from his eyes with the sleeve of his gray sweatshirt. None of his neighbors greeted him; he wasn't one to socialize, even if he could.

Outside the building, he passed a makeshift altar with a photo of a teenager his age, dressed like a gangster. The sign read: *"He didn't deserve this. Poor innocent soul."* Confusion prickled him, as it always did here. *Was he truly innocent?*

He'd seen that boy smoking with friends, laughing as they rifled through stolen purses. *Who is truly innocent?*

"Does innocence even exist?" he muttered, boarding the bus to school. Through the window, he watched a man angrily pounding an ATM, as if it had personally betrayed him.

He cringed at the man's rage and turned away, slipping on his headphones to drown out the noise.

"It's like it follows me," he sighed, feeling foolish. Maybe escaping *it*—the shadow that lingered always—was impossible.

The bus lurched forward. The sunny day felt deceptively cheerful, the kind that would lift any normal person's mood.

Stepping off near his high school, he removed his headphones to cross the street safely, glancing both ways. He'd learned to arrive early; it minimized the chaos he couldn't control.

At the school's blue gate, he passed a group of girls watching a news clip about the escalating Ukraine-Russia war, their faces pale with horror.

He walked on, only to find boys on the other side of the building reacting to the same news with excitement—a stark contrast.

"I wanna be a hero!" one jeered. He recalled a meme: *All men want to die as war heroes.* But he'd never felt that way.

What was heroic about killing parents of innocent children? Husbands of grieving wives? Young men with futures?

Further down the hall, he stumbled upon a shouting match between disheveled students and the principal. The irony struck him—this principal was a decorated war hero, now aged and weary.

"Screw you, old man! I'll smoke where I want, you Walmart raisin!" a student spat. The principal responded with a punch to the boy's face. Despite his age, the principal was still strong. Teachers rushed to restrain him as the students threatened to retaliate, but a calm professor defused the situation.

The students fled, spitting at teachers and laughing like conquerors.

"Ungrateful brats! I'm a hero! A *hero*!" the principal roared. The boys flipped him off. Spotting Iris nearby, they mocked him too with crude gestures before vanishing.

"Iris, I'm sorry about that. Don't worry—we'll expel them. The new cameras the principal bought are a godsend," the biology professor said kindly. He'd built a reputation as the "nice teacher."

"Sure. Hope it works out," Iris replied. The professor headed to the principal's office, while others followed. The principal glared after the troublemakers until his eyes locked with Iris's.

"I'm a hero," the principal declared before slamming the office door. Iris stared at the closed door, bewildered.

*Can someone who took lives truly be a hero? Someone who stole happiness? Made people weep?*

He remembered a viral video: a war veteran muttering, *"Is this what I risked my life for?"* as a teen shoved him, stole his hat, and laughed.

*Is that why people go to war? For praise? Not for country or protection? Do they expect everyone to kneel?*

The bell rang. Iris snapped back to reality. Knowing the math teacher would be late, he strolled to class, untroubled by time.