Angel.

As the night shrunk away, melting into the earth, the sun made an appearance, it dyed the sky red slowly fading into yellow as its rays reached the furthest stretches of land. At the quaint old farm in the valley, a cockerel sounded, signalling the start of a new day for some, and the start of a new life for others.

John O’Brian had been awake for a few hours before the cockerel had sounded, after a long sleepless night he had slipped on his worn slippers and shuffled down the stairs in hope of rest. None had come to him, however, as he pondered over the events of the night before. How could a simple dream seem so real? Yet he could not otherwise remember the previous evening.

He had considered venturing into the barn, where he had dreamed he had set up a temporary bed for the strange, breathtaking creature, but he had stopped himself in fear of what he might find there. John O’Brian was by no means a cowardly man, he was a hard-working, down to earth, strictly no-nonsense kind of guy, and he hoped his sons would grow to be the same.

For a while he sat, questioning his own mentality as he eyed his full mug of cold tea, if he was delusional, it would mean his eldest son, Mathew, would have to take over the farm. Both of his sons were fully prepared for this large weight of responsibility but as a father, he did not wish to burden him just yet.

It was a full thirty minutes before the cock-a-doodling that Matthew walked into the silent kitchen and John watched him make a mug of tea before finally making the decision to confide in his eldest son.

Matthew looked at his unusually subdued father as he sat with his hot drink, frowning when he noticed his father’s cold, untouched mug of tea on the wooden surface, but he remained silent, his father was not the sort of person who told you his problems, Mathew knew that if his father was going to say something, it would be in his own time.

John felt mildly ashamed having to admit to his own son that he may have been going mad, and when looking upon the wide-eyed concern and alarm etched upon his son’s face after he explained in a soft voice what he remembered, he buried his face in his hands.

It was half an hour later the barn doors were opened a crack, a sliver of light streaking across the straw-littered floor. Seeing his father’s despair, Mathew convinced him to come to the barn and take a quick look around before making any quick assumption about his mental health.

With another tug, the door opened wide enough for them both to slip inside. Upon doing so, Mathew felt his stomach drop; the bottom floor of the barn was as desolate as ever, strewn with the short ends of hay and straw.

Taking a quick glance at his father’s face, he was surprised to see his eyes still clinging desperately on to that last piece of hope, his dark faded blue eyes fixed upon the simple wooden steps, leading to the storage of straw and hay above.

Mathew, now clinging onto the same hope his father was, slowly started up the steps, each steady step he took, his heartbeat increased, there was a fluttering present in his stomach, as if he were awaiting the results of a test, rather than searching a barn.

John O’Brian also experienced the same suspense tightening the muscles in his stomach; it was like waiting for his children to be born, not knowing whether he would be bringing up a boy or a girl. When his son reached the top of the stairs he heard his heavy steps on the wooden floor, dust sprinkling from the gaps between the wood where he stepped, then silence.

He had the urge to call up and ask, but he has the distinct feeling he didn’t want to know the answer...