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She's happy to see me again today, and for that I am glad. Sometimes the toxins in her system pain her so much she can't sleep, and sometimes she can't even get out of bed or speak properly. But today she greets me with a smile and I return the gesture.

We sit down and begin talking. I ask all my routine questions. How are you? Does it hurt especially bad anywhere? What have you been doing lately? Is the medicine working? Slowly we come to the last one, the all-important one, but also the one that I both dread and desperately want to know the answer to.

Do you ever feel like flying again?

It is the whole point of the program. The federal government would not otherwise spend billions on rehabilitation, doctors, medical examinations and everything that they are currently doing. The more poetically inclined among us might term it a form of atonement, but the concerted efforts of the doctors have a more practical concern. Angels, with their reinforced bone structure, greater adaptability and of course, ability to fly, would be of great use in the colonization efforts.

But for me all that exists in that moment is her, and the answer that I both seek and back away from. No, that's not entirely correct. I am aware of my eyes flickering over the medical report, the distant hum of the generator, the soft glow of the lights in the room. On some level, at least. All my attention is focused on her though. The way she shakes her head. The play of light on the sheen of her hair, the slightest move of her head, the flicker of her eyelids.

It's a dance we both go through every day. I ask the same questions and she gives the same answers. Eventually when we

get to the end, she tells me what I most fervently wish to not hear, I accept it with what grace I can muster, and I leave and go

back to the seemingly endless rounds of scans and analyses and reports which all tell me the same thing - that have been

telling me the same thing for the last two months.

There is nothing physically wrong with her. In fact, she is among as healthy a sample (I cringe mentally as I use that word) as we have ever found. Whatever toxins that remained from the bioweapons have been purged by her system a long time ago. Others are not so lucky. In the adjoining building are those that still suffer from residual mutations, who were near ground zero when the bombs struck later in the war. I hear horror stories from the other doctors, whispered consultations about who is going to live and die.

The war may have ended some time ago, but Earth's resources are not infinite. In fact, they are anything but. Triage is still a reality now, but instead of being for our troops, now we are deciding which of our former oppressors will survive. Humans, deciding the fate of those who had so long been the judge of ours. The irony does not escape me.

But maybe the ones who are mutated are in fact the lucky ones. There are cures for them, simple, straightforward - if painful and expensive. We know what to do with them. The chemical structures for the mutations and diseases, though complicated, can be understood in time. The Exceln supercomputer, so adept at coordinating bombing runs and frontal assaults, provided equally effective at decoding the mysteries of angel DNA.

All this doesn't help me, though. Why won't she fly? Why won't she even attempt to? I run through all this in my head, argument and counterargument, knowing that it is likely to be useless. She might not be even able to tell me if she knew.

Medical science has advanced so much, but it is next to useless against whatever malady she has. I find myself turning back to authors at the turn of the millennium, who helped cure patients with only the most primitive knowledge of quantum brainwaves and neuro-intervention. They had little to work with, and yet they managed to work miracles with only the most basic of instruments. I have sore need of their abilities now - where our nanomachines have tried and failed, perhaps their methods and ways, old though they are, might yet prevail.

Days pass, and I bury myself in books and microfilms, searching desperately for answers to questions that were never meant to be

asked. Glimmers of hope appear from time to time, but I often feel like a blind man in a dark cave, unable to grasp even the slightest

hint of something that might help.

My investigations do bear fruit after some time, and I learn new ways of healing. Apparently simple conversation is the key to unlock the secrets of the mind and soul. Let the patient speak, the books counsel, and they will eventually tell you all that you need to know. Patience is the watchword - I see that phrase repeated time and time again, but time is something that is in short supply.

It all seems too easy. I am just to speak to her, and that will somehow aid in her cure? But I am at my wit's end, and having

tried everything, all that remains is the impossible.

I enter her room as I always do, to find her sitting at the window, as she always is.

I'm not sure what I should say to her. In fact I am never sure what I should say to her...but I guess that might actually be the point. If the doctors were certain of what treatment would work, she would be flying by now.

I begin with the most simple of statements. I am mindful of everything that I have read so far...the books advocate going as slow as possible. When there is no sickness of the body, it must be something that resides in the mind, and that is always the most delicate of matters.

"How do you feel?" I am taught that that should be the opening statement. It invites a response, and is open-ended enough

that the patient will not feel unduly pressured.

"Alright, I guess." She sighs and one wing droops and trails listlessly on the spotless floor. I don't reply that she looks anything BUT alright. That is not the recommended course of action. We are supposed to let the patients speak for themselves and not interpret what they say...reflection, not response.

Moments pass and she does not do much else besides look from side to side. Finally, I venture another question.

"How are you doing these days?" I judge it to be a neutral enough query, but it does not have its intended effect. All she does is sigh again, close her eyes and then look at the ground. I wait a few minutes more, but she does not say a thing.

We are getting nowhere. I curse my superiors for pushing her so hard - they think I do not know how they maintain constant surveillance of her through remote cameras hidden in her room, but I do. She has precious little privacy, and not enough room to heal. The treatment of invisible wounds is not something that can be managed by amateurs, and their clumsy meddling threatens to undo what little good I have accomplished so far.

I take a deep breath and try again. My anger, no matter how justified, will not help here. I school myself to be non-judgmental, and continue asking questions in what I hope is a measured tone of voice. Is the food to her liking? How about rest - is she sleeping well? Would she like to go outside, or read a book? All simple, non-threatening inquiries. Anything to get her to reply, to open those eyes hooded in pain and mouth shut in silence.

Nothing. After three more questions or so I fight to keep from sighing and leave the room slowly and quietly. There is nothing to be done right now - if she will not talk, she will not. Waiting is hard indeed when the rewards are so dearly anticipated, but all the texts that I have read counsel patience, and so I try and stifle my mounting frustration. If she is to be cured at all, in will not be in the space of a single night. And if today was a failure - and I have no way of knowing if it was or not - then there is always tomorrow.

I try taking breaks here and there, not coming every day but on alternate days, and it seems to help somewhat. She looks at me when I come through the door now. Her wings, though still non-functional, do not trail along the ground anymore. A little color has come back to her cheeks...not a lot, but enough to gladden me.

I think we are getting somewhere, but I cannot be sure. She seems to even enjoy my visits now - she smiles sometimes, and answers my questions once in a while. But we are still not one step closer to getting her to fly. My joy at these small (but not insignificant) developments is overshadowed by my worry about her well-being. She still doesn't look healthy - her hair lies lank and still on her head, and she moves slowly, too slowly. At times she moves from bed to chair and almost trips, and I have to rush to her side to make sure she does not fall.

Despite all this, the pressure from my superiors is mounting. They want to know what is wrong, and fast. If we can cure her, then maybe we can cure others, and if we can cure others... I tell them not to rush, that this is not something we can hurry. It is the science of the mind that we are dealing with here, and that has no quick fixes or answers, no matter how much they may want them.

But for all my words and placations I am worried as well. What if she doesn't respond to the treatment? What shall I do then? I check the books and they say to simply give the patient more time, but that is also a resource that is in finite supply. I would like to pretend that we have forever, but we most certainly do not. If we wait too long, then there is the very real chance that the higher-ups will withdraw my funding and support, and maybe even take her away to another facility. They are sure to push her far too hard there, and who knows what much happen? I have heard the horror stories from the other researchers. Direct neural intervention using probes, medications force-fed for days…it does not even bear thinking about.

It will do no good to worry overmuch. I close my eyes, sigh and open the door that leads to her room. Today is another day, and with each day comes hope - hope for the future, hope for healing, for myself and her. At least, that is what I keep telling myself.

She smiles when she sees me, which I take to be a good sign.

"How are you feeling today?" I ask the same question each day. Some routine would do her good.

"Better, thank you." And it does look like it. There is a sheen in her silver-grey hair that wasn't there before, and a lightness to her face that makes me feel much better than it really should. I try to cultivate an air of detachment but I cannot quite contain my joy at the change in her. It's working...all this talking is really working!

We chat a while about this and that, what books she is reading - last week she timidly asked for a few, and I had them sent up to her rooms as quickly as possible. She likes picture books, especially those about nature. She tells me about the trees

I marvel that how simple conversation could have wreaked such a great change in her. The ancients obviously knew what they were talking about.

In a time without advanced science, they had somehow managed to uncover secrets of the mind and soul that still proven relevant to this day. How much bloodshed and strife would we prevent if we had just talked to each other...but that is my researcher's mind wandering again.

Our conversation goes in circles for a while. I want to simply ask directly if she thinks she might be up to flying, but something tells me that that might be too much, too soon. So instead I keep to the same safe topics. What has she done today? Is the food to her

liking? Tell me about the stories you are reading in the books.

That last question seemed to spark in her, and I let my own cares and worries float away for a while as I listen to her chatter animatedly about the giants and trolls and pixies that have tickled her fancy. It is a welcome distraction from us both, and for a short while we are able to take a much-needed escape from reality. Such is her enthusiasm that even I am drawn into it, forgetting the need for objectivity and end up becoming a participant in her imaginary adventures.

She grows tired after about an hour of talking, and I draw things to a close as adroitly as I am able. I think we are making progress. At the very least she is talking now, and from there perhaps more healing can come.

I've suggested painting as a means to recovery. They call it art therapy, and it is supposed to work wonders and reach places that

mere words cannot. I am skeptical but remain hopeful - everything the books have said has been right so far.

She seems to take to it well enough. I've ordered paints sent to her room, along with the picture books that she seems to like so much.

Tales of fantasy are forgotten in favor of pastel colors and bright shades. Though the images in the books are all of woodland scenes, with trees and green grass aplenty, she does not paint any of those. Instead, she favors pictures of the sun, the clouds, and the open sky. The symbolism is not lost on me - she desires freedom, and all we do

is keep her in a locked cage.

Would that it were within my power to grant her that which she wishes. But she cannot have freedom unless she learns to fly once again - and if she does, then wouldn't see already be free? The problem and the solution are one and the same. It is a strange dance that we are engaged in, a game of getting her to do what she already wants to do, but cannot.

I watch her paint via remote camera. It would be too intrusive to actually be in the room itself with her - I consult once more with the sages of old, and they say that my presence might be construed as being too aggressive. The last thing I want to do is jeopardize the gains that we have both so painstakingly made, and so I judge that checking on her progress remotely is probably the best course of action.

She paints slowly, deliberately, drawing each line with infinite care and control. She sketches the outline of a circle, then daubs at it ever so gently with yellow that she has mixed before, her brow creased in concentration. And with those simple motions a sun is born. Next she streaks white across the already snowy canvas and there are clouds.

I find myself lost in the delicacy and simplicity of her craft. More than once I think that all I would ever desire is to be there, watching her at work. I forgot to take notes or observe anything, and I feel renewed gratefulness for the computer monitoring software whose readouts will let me at least pretend that I am working when they are checked later.

I wonder what she is thinking as she sketches each golden orb and fills in each ivory wisp of cloud. Does she miss the past? Does she remember the times when her brothers and sisters rained destruction down on our cities from on high? I often think of asking her about the war, but I think that would be even worse than

asking whether or not she is ready to fly. If she does remember, it may be far too traumatic for her to even attempt to recall. And if she doesn't, there is no point in dredging up what should be forgotten.

We have to look to the future, and not the past...but what if the answers we seek may lie in places we once thought were dead and gone? It is a conundrum that resists my best efforts to unravel.

The other scientists are hounding me to produce results. Work on the orbital station is proceeding apace, and they need new workers desperately...almost as desperately as I want to be cured. I explain to them that we are at a delicate stage in her treatment and that I cannot risk jeopardizing what progress we have already established, but my pleas fall on deaf ears. They only care about one thing - getting her to fly. It is the same thing I care about, but our ways of going about it are completely different.

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I worry myself if I have grown too close to her. The books say that we cannot risk becoming too enmeshed with our charges, lest that impair our judgment. But in my case I think it has already happened.

I want her to be able to fly with a desire that surprises even myself. It's not just about the recolonization efforts, or the validation of my theories. I do not care for career advancement or academic success or any of those things that my cohorts seem to obsessed with. I have grown to realize that I am striving for something far greater. I just want something to brighten her wan face, to lend light to her eyes. To make her dreary imprisonment just that little bit more palatable, so that every day that she wakes she has something to look forwards to. To make her happy.

I want to help. I can even believe that I am helping. She speaks more at each session now, and I think the pictures are a step in the right direction - she has begun to speak, albeit haltingly, about what she wants to do when she is well enough to leave the medical facilities. I struggle to keep my composure and not become too excited, for fear of triggering a negative reaction in her. There is a lightness in a step that wasn't there before, and sometimes when a brief quiet space falls into the flow of our conversations, she

casts shadowed eyes to the ceiling and even seems to remember what happened to her so many years before.

We are getting somewhere. I believe that...I have to believe that. The time we have both spent together is forging a bond between us - something powerful and precious which will in time transcend the fears and sorrow of the past. That is my hope at least.

One day out of the blue, she suggests taking a walk around the gardens. I am only too happy to accede to her request, though I am also careful to make sure that our paths do not take us too close to any of the internment camps that are perilously close to where we are walking. I don't think it would do her good to look on our other prisoners. She may suspect the truth - wounded or no, she is no fool - but I do not want to take any chances.

It is a beautiful day. The sky is clear and unmarked, the trees and green and vibrant, and even the very air smells fresh and new. She seems invigorated by the physical activity and she chatters to me endlessly about what pictures she is painting and what books she is reading. As we turn the corner of one of the paths wending their way through the fields we stroll through, she almost skips and dances.

I am seized by a sudden desire to take her hand, but I beat it back down with all the self-control I can muster. Not only would it be too much, too much, it would be completely and totally inappropriate. I am here to help her regain flight not, not...not whatever else it is I want to do. I shake my head and simply follow her as she makes her meandering way through the greenery around us.

She stops suddenly and points to the sky. I follow her outstretched finger's motion, but I cannot see what means. Sensing my question, she asks one of her own.

"What is out there?"

"What do you mean?" I am confused, but I hope I don't let it show.

"Beyond the sky. One of the nurses said it was space...what is that? Is that another sky? Past the sun and moon and clouds?"

I somehow sense that this is not the time to explain astrology to her. Nor can tell the truth behind her simply inquiries - that past that cloudless expanse of blue is the orbital space station that we need her assistance with. I simply smile and nod. Another sky...that is one way to put it. Black where this is blue, full of stars instead of clouds.

She falls suddenly quiet again, and I lead her back to her quarters.

Weeks past, and I can delay things no longer. The time to try actual flight has come. I try to make it slow and painless as I possibly can, ensuring that no one disturbs us during our preparations, and telling the nurses to take extra-special care of her in the days leading up to our experiment.

I do not bother consulting the books. They have brought me to this place, but I doubt they have any more advice to offer at this point. This will be something only she and I can do.

I debate with myself endlessly about how best to go about actually getting her into the air. My mind suggests to me a myriad of options that I discard summarily - rocket-assisted flight, drugs to stimulate nerve endings, or even cybernetics. In the end I settle on the most simple of solutions. I will bring her to the gardens that seemed to so invigorate her, and let her try her best. Her wings which were had once lost their colors have regained some of their former sheen, and I take this to be a good sign.

It is a bright and cloudless day when we resolve to make out first attempt. I hold her hand as we walk out from her rooms, and I marvel at how small it seems in mine. I can feel her trembling and she makes no attempt to hide it. She is afraid, as I am. What if we fail? But on the other hand...what if we succeed?

We reach a small hillock and I nod to her. She nods back, closing her eyes in concentration. I let go of her hand and she walks forwards.

She takes one faltering step, and then another. I wait with bated breath, hoping against hope. Her wings flap once, and then again. I am struck by how delicate they look in the morning sun, their pristine whiteness making them appear almost transparent. I want to rush out, to reach out to her, clasp her shoulders and hug her to me, but I cannot. Fail or succeed, this is something that she must do herself.

The expression on her face pains me to even see it. What memories are rushing through her mind at this moment? I know from the doctor's reports that the nerves on her wings have been damaged, but they are still intact enough to let her feel physical pain. And I need no books or medical experts to know that the body and mind are linked, and when one hurts, so does the other. But I force all those thoughts from my mind and return to the moment, to the here and now.

Another step, another wing flap. Her steps come more easily now, beating a soft rhythm on the flat grass. Her pinions come down once, twice and it looks for one moment that she might make it. Time stops and my world contracts to the motion of her wings, the color of her eyes, and the sudden gust of wind that springs up.

But the very next second pain transfixes her face, and she stumbles. What should have been a step becomes instead a sudden lunge forwards, and she lists to the side, panting. Before I know it she has crumpled to the ground. I rush forwards to catch her, but I am too late. I cradle her gently in my arms, the notion of flight all but forgotten.

I wipe away the tears from her face as best as I am able. However painful the fall must have been, it does not compare to the anguish she must be feeling inside. She buries her face in my chest and I stroke her back with utmost care. Moments pass as we embrace, and I wish, not for the first time, that I could shoulder her burden instead.

It is a slow walk back to her room. She leans on me the entire way there, barely able to put one foot in front of another. I lift her into her bed slowly and pull the covers over her. She falls asleep almost immediately, but it is a restless, fitful slumber. I watch her from my seat at the table as she twists and turns, moaning softly.

This is a setback that we will not easily recover from, but...but...we still have to try.

I dread going to see her after what has happened. She hasn't spoken a word since then, and the nurses tell me that all she does is staring at the ceiling from dawn to dusk. After filing the relevant reports, I steel my nerves and make the short trip to her rooms.

It is worse than I feared. She sits on her chair, unseeing, and I feel that like all the work we have done was wasted. She is back to where she was before I commenced her treatment...no, even worse this time. At least then she looked at me when I spoke to her, and occasionally replied.

Now I have been sitting here for half an hour and all she has been doing is sighing. I fight back the irritation that threatens to overcome me. What she needs is patience, and time...the former which is in short supply and the latter which I have little of.

After what seemed like an eternity of waiting I venture a question. "How do you feel?"

She doesn't reply, instead looking at me with an expression bothering on disdain. Of course. She must feel terrible. Still, it had to be asked.

I fumble enough for something else to say. What could possibly get through to her in the state that she is in? Talking of books and pictures seems so paltry in the light of what she must have experienced. I want to ask her how I can help, but I she already knows that I wish to do so. Asking about her condition would just be too premature. But I must say something. I must get through to get somehow.

After a minute or so of deliberation I decide to take the plunge. "What is the matter?" There, I said it. It's out in the open now.

"Nothing." Another wingtip droops and her eyes avoid mine.

"You know that's not true." The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them. I think it has gotten to me - the stress, the constant questioning from above, the sleepless nights spent poring over words and papers. Not to mention the fact that her failure weighs on me - if not as heavily as it does on her - a great deal as well. I am no angel, only human, and my frustration has apparently finally spilled over.

She looks at me almost angrily. I am happy to see the spark of emotion from her, but upset at her reaction. All my carefully cultivated detachment vanishes in that instant. I'm only trying to help...only trying to help! How can she not see that? What can else can I possibly do?

Our eyes meet and I feel the futility of the situation once again. What else can I say? We have reached a point beyond what the books have taught, what I myself can do.

Her eyes flash and she makes a sudden motion towards the door. She wants me to leave? Fine. I'll do that. Better than sitting here and wasting my time. I get up angrily and within minutes I am on my way back to my room. I regret my rash and impulsive movements even before I am halfway there. What kind of healer leaves his charge suffering all alone? What kind of scientist forsakes logic for anger? But in those moments everything seems too much to bear, and I want to do is bury my head in a book and shut out the world.

I spend the next few days hiding from everything and everyone, swimming in what seems to be an endless sea of reports. I have work to do, I tell myself. Things need my attention. And on top of that, my behavior was unacceptable, thoroughly, completely and utterly unprofessional. I feel a need to redeem myself, to work hard enough that I can erase the memories of my outburst and failure both.

But deep inside I know that I am just avoiding having to see her. The expression on her haunts me...anger and bitterness is a potent mixture that cuts deep into my heart. I wonder for a moment who is hurting more at the moment - she or I.

I shouldn't have lashed out like that. I should have been more calm, more at ease. Steadier, more accepting. I turn back to the books once more, but all they say is that caretakers themselves need rest and relaxation. That is all well and good, but they have never had to deal with the fate of a race resting on the healing of a single girl before.

My emotions cool after a while and reason returns to me, along with other feelings...regret for harsh words spoken, and determination to see things through till the end. I cannot abandon her now, not in what may be her darkest hour. She is my charge and in my care, and books or no books, I will lead her into the sky.

I am not so blind as to see where this is leading. I have abandoned all pretense of keeping a safe distance from my patient emotionally, and I am entangled in her healing to may be considered an unhealthy level...but so be it. Science has not proven to have worked so far, and hotter emotions may prevail where rationale falters.

Or so I tell myself. In truth, all I want to do is see her smile again.

We are sitting and talking again, and her disposition has improved considerably. She smiles more, and makes conversation, and is able to walk short walks in the gardens again. There has been no mention of books or pictures, but that is well enough. Some weeks have passed, and time has healed the sting of bitter failure somewhat.

Neither of us has apologized, but we didn't need to. When I had screwed the courage to appear in her room again, she greeted me the same way she always did. We fell to talking, and for once I am able to relax in her presence and put away the constant questions and examinations that I am seemingly forever engaged in. I allow myself to be grateful that she has not seemed to suffer lasting harm, and to take simple joy in her company.

As I sit in my chair, she reaches out a soft hand to take mine. I am not supposed to touch my patient, but there are so many things that I am not supposed to do that I have done that this is just one other forbidden fruit out of many. I return her smile with one of my own.

I think I am falling in love with her. I think I already have.

But as for her healing...there is not much else I can do at this point. I have tried everything I can, and all that remains is to...to what? A last consultation with the books reveals that there are things that even the ancients did not know. Maybe all I have to do is trust that mysterious entity know as fate.

I look down at our hands and I realize that without my knowing I have entwined mine in hers. I lift my head and meet her gaze, and I reach an outstretched hand to her to...to do what? What is it that I desire? What might bring us to the point that we both wish to be at, somewhere that is beyond this room and chairs in it. The sky is waiting for us, along with something more.

She averts her eyes, a faint blush coloring her pale cheeks, and I drop my hand embarrassedly to my side. We sit for a few moments longer and I think of what to say, but to my amazement I come up with nothing. Or maybe there is really nothing else that can be said.

I think she is ready now.

The past month has been more of the same. The higher-ups hound me for reports, useless data continued to stream in, and I continue my daily visits to her. There been a slow but gradual shift in her that gladdens my heart to see. I was so worried that her failure would have scarred her beyond her ability to recover, but she has rallied gamely.

I judge that our bond has deepened till the extent that I do not need to fear rejection, and I am right. One day I ask her outright about how it felt to try and fail to fly. She looks at me straight in the eyes, blinks, and after a few moments begins to tell me.

It starts off slowly, with her pausing between each word and the next. She told me that her head started hurting first, but she tried to shut away the sensations and concentrate on walking instead. But the dull throbbing in her temples wouldn't go away, until, until...her recollections become more and more vivid the more she speaks.

She brings her knees up and clasps her arms around them, rocking back and forth in quick, sharp motions. This is obviously difficult for her, but I am patient. More than that I am somehow able to restrain myself from going over to embrace her. The most I will allow myself to do is place a hand on her shoulder as she reaches a particularly difficult place in her story. It seems to help, and she comes back to herself once more. She speaks until the flood of words grows from a trickle into a torrent and it is like she cannot stop herself even if she wanted to.

She remembered. She remembered everything before her fall. While the war was raging and human and angel fought over sky, earth and sea. She was flying through the clouded skies with her brothers and sisters when a stray laser blast from the cannon emplacements tore through one wing - and then she remembers falling...an eternity of falling. The memories were so twined that to feel one was to feel the other...to fly was to fall.

As her story continues to unfold, I am not surprised to see tears trace their way down her cheeks, but I watch silently. All this seems to be helping though. Perhaps the books were right after all. The simple telling of one’s story does heal in ways that cannot easily be seen.

It is a breakthrough, and I am glad for it. The next day - and in fact the week after - she is brighter and more cheerful than I have ever seen. She has taken to sketching again, and this time green grass and blue skies are once again her subjects. I am heartened by her recovery, and suddenly all the reports that I have to fill and people to answer with seem so insignificant in the face of this joy.

Emboldened by our success, one day I throw caution to the wind and ask her directly if she wishes to fly.

She looks back at me with eyes brighter than I have ever seen and nods. I am reminded of a long-ago night when as a child, I looked up into the night sky and gazed in wonder at the twinkling lights above. This war before the wars, and the skies were still clear and dark when the sun went down. But what shines in her jet-black orbs now is more brilliant that the radiance I saw so many years ago.

The time has come, it seems. Once again, I do not bother with medicine or any other kinds of panaceas. I can sense her will and her intention, and those are what will bear her aloft. It is time to put books and cures behind us and trust in our bonds instead. Once again she takes my hand in hers and in her tiny grip I can feel the pulse of something greater than either of us.

We walk out to a grassy field - one of the few that has survived the devastation of the war. It is a cold, moonless night when we make our second attempt, and unlike the first I do not think of either good fortune or bad. After all this time I feel a kind of acceptance of fate. Whatever happens, will happen.

She stands silent and calm amidst the tall grass. Her wings unfurl slowly, and I realize at this moment that I have never seen them at their full extension. They are broader and wider than she is, twin white feathered canvases that envelop her small frame. Before she had let them out slowly, with a certain hesitation and reluctance that kept them close. But now each wing is filled with purpose and energy. Where there once stood a small dove now a white-winged hawk prepares to take flight. She closes her eyes and clasps her hands as if in prayer and she looks at that moment like a statue I saw in a book long ago.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I had been holding.

Her wings beat once, twice - then, as they gather power and resolution, they begin to sweep the air with a ferocity that sends a downburst to even where I stand, a few meters away. I have to hold a hand up to my face to protect it from the blasts of winds, and when I look up -

She is aloft.

She is flying higher than I thought possible, almost out of my sight. All I can see is a white shadow spinning and whirling against the starry backdrop of the night sky. I watch in amazement and wonder as she does aerial pirouettes, backflips, dives and swoops...here I was afraid she would not even make it into the air, and here she is almost dancing in the skies. She has gone back to her original form, who she was and was meant to be...an angel.

I run around, screaming like a madman with joy and exultation. The orbital space station is the furthest thing from my mind. She has done it. We have done it. Flight is once again within her reach, and who knows what might come after.

She spirals down, laughing in delight, and this time I am able to catch her as she makes her descent. We spin and whirl together, no less exuberant on the ground than up above.

Finally we come to a stop, both of us exhausted from our motions. I collapse into the ground and she does as well, sending a small storm of feathers up into the air. Her small hand finds mine again as they fall like snow around us, a benediction in white. I give her a reassuring squeeze as I gaze at the heavens above.

Space awaits us - not just me, but humanity as well. And it is all thanks to her. What we have accomplished together is nothing short of a miracle. I turn over and meet her eager and excited gaze.

There is so much more that we will have to do in the future. But for now I am lost in her eyes, and all I want to do is bask in their light for a time...and think of nothing but angels.