Memories zoomed in front of the Seer, striking by like a shooting star, memorable but only for a short period. He raised his hand to the memories, hearing Sara’s voice, laughter, crying, and talking ringing out around him all at once.

Raphael’s magic propelled him to seek out that specific day, hidden by all these stubborn memories. They fled from him like a game of hide-and-seek. The more he pried deeper into her mind and looked at her past, black patches covered where he had already seen them, vanishing in proofs of white smoke.

The hairs stood at the end of Raphael’s neck. He gazed behind his shoulder, feeling like someone was watching him, but he couldn’t see anyone. Of course, he was in Sara’s mind, so it could be her, but he expected her to be looking for that day, uninterested, or not even knowing he was there.

After what seemed like hours—probably only a mere five minutes—Raphael heard more of Sara’s crying around him than anything else. He was diving deeper into where Sara hoped to have lost the bad parts of her life.

A memory loosened, and Raphael took it, seeing six-year-old Sara weeping in a pool of blood, screaming in choking despair: “Father, I didn’t mean to!” She looked at her hands, drenched in blood that also covered her from top to bottom.

“Sara, what happened?” gasped Michael and stared horrified at his daughter.

Her eyes glowering red, Sara whimpered, “They...they were mean to me! They told me I should die...because I’m a part demon!” The little girl rasped with a grave expression, “I wanted them to stop saying mean things, so... I wished awfully that they should choke on their own words.” She glanced at her father with sacredness. “And they started choking up blood!”

A shudder ran down Raphael’s spine, and he threw that memory away, recalling when his brother told him about that event. It was sometimes hard to believe that Sara was part demon.

From that day on, she had always hidden her demonic side of herself, which made the Seer worried. If she kept hiding a part of herself that shouldn’t be locked up all the time—like a caged animal prisoner for too long, when it’s released, it would be vengeful.

Raphael stood in darkness, but the smallest shimming light appeared in the distance. He raced towards it, but no matter how fast he ran, the tiniest wisp of brightness fled from him. He lifted his hands and soared towards it.

Before the wisp of light darted away, he seized on it. He felt the brittle touch shiver through his bones. The light crackled and withered to escape from his grasp like a slick eel. The glow radiated around him, and Raphael thought he saw a glint of lavender.

Focusing on the white illuminating lasso and feeling like he was holding a bolt of lightning, Raphael squeezed as hard as he could on the blazing light.

Then, everywhere around him, the floor trembled, and Sara’s agonizing cry pierced the darkness. He refused to let go, and finally, the rift of magic burst and ruptured above him like millions of exploding stars.

A strand of memory unloosed and showed Sara’s eyes dropping with tiredness on a beanbag. The moon shone, and stars twinkled behind her. She was reading a book with a three-dimensional triangle shape on its cover. The memory faded away.

“That doesn’t feel right,” Sara’s thoughts echoed in the black space of her mind.

Raphael guessed that since he was in her consciousness, he could hear her thoughts running wild as they both tried to reach that day. He shot his hand out, prying into Sara’s very core. Remember Sara!

Another memory flashed before him. This time, Sara shyly asked if she could have mint ice cream. She gladly took her late-night snack and thanked the Choir, skipping away.

Sara’s inner voice mummer: “That also doesn’t seem correct. I never liked mint ice cream; it tastes too much like toothpaste.”

The Archangel frowned, reaching his hands out once again, in hopes of grasping anything that peaked familiarly.

A memory whizzed by Raphael, revealing little Sara swinging gloomily on the playground alone in the dark. Sadness washed over her, her long black hair tangled up in her face. “I remember being upset by Father, but the reason, no idea...closer, but just feels fallacious.”

That strand of false memory lingered. Raphael gritted his teeth, calling out to Sara: REMEMBER!

The sound of crackling intensified, like a stranded wire in water.

A wisp of lavender missile passed the Seer. He would’ve missed it if his eyes weren’t sharp and ready. Raphael sprinted in the complete darkness beside the strand of lavender fleeting from him. His topcoat flapped behind him as he raced to catch it. He urged: Remember, Sara!

Sweat broke out, and the closer he got to the strand of magic, the more he felt the presence of a barrier blocking him. With every step he took, Raphael felt his feet sinking into a mud pot, but no mud was to be found. He reached out, his fingertips touching the runaway strand, and his fingers barely laced around it and snatched it.

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The burst of lavender nearly blinded him, and his body collapsed in exhaustion. Once he composed himself, Raphael glanced up as lavender atoms came together, and in seconds, he was in the prison room. Despite being in the darkened cell, he could make out the shapes of the walls and inside of the prison.

Pitch was sleeping soundlessly in the twin bed. The room was quiet, and there was no noise besides the air conditioner making a steady, soft-blowing sound. He assumed the Choirs could’ve had no sound present, but they put it in to not drive the prisoner insane from the pure silence.

A grinding noise of a door unlocking had the Seer almost jump out of his skin. The heavy doors slid open, and light spilled into the room. Raphael gasped, hoping the person didn’t see them, but remembered this was only a memory. He wasn’t time-traveling.

Soft footsteps patted against the cool flooring.

The Seer watched Pitch jerk up from his bed, the sound startling him awake. The warlock gasped, and a shaky breath followed. His black hair stuck to his face from sweat, and terror stuck to him. His lavender eyes shone out at who this person might be. Clutching his jaw, he heard the footsteps come closer.

He screamed, “Fuck you, Michael, and everyone stupid Choir you have! Your race will one day die, and I will laugh while I’m burning in Hell!” Pitch breathed out, clearly feeling better from shouting his wrecking emotions.

The figure emerged, and to Pitch and Raphael’s surprise, it wasn’t Michael or any of the Choirs, but a girl. “Father says the F word is bad for you,” stated Sara, cocking her head to one side at the warlock. Her coal eyes looked back at his lavender ones.

Pitch stared in wonderment at the child, breathing out his disbelief. He blinked a few times to see if this wasn’t a dream, and he glanced at the closed doors to find no one else was with her. “I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else.” He walked to the glass barrier, confusion written on his face about why she was there all alone.

“So, you are Sara? What are you doing here?”

Sara gazed at him as if that were her answer, her hands clasped before her.

The High-warlock glanced up at the clock, Raphael noting Pitch, seeing what time his execution would be. He had ten minutes to convince this little beast to free him.

“I shouldn’t be doing this. What if Dad figures it out?” Sara’s voice spilled out in the room, but the girl hadn’t physically said that.

Standing in the corner, dreaded anticipation crept along his skin.

The Seer watched Pitch ponder many questions to ask her, but he simply questioned, “How old are you?” He went to his knees, Raphael assuming to look as less intimidating as possible. Pitch placed his hands on his black pants, showing the girl he was being open and not hiding anything behind his back. His eyes sparkled with earnestness as if he had all day to wait patiently for her answer.

Looking at the floor timidly, Sara replied, “Seven.”

“Wow, you are so old!” Pitch joked with a smile.

Sara giggled. “Not as old as you!”

“That’s true,” agreed Pitch. “So, what are you doing here?”

When she spoke, her voice quivered, skittish at the idea of being in the room. “You have such pretty eyes; I wish I had eyes like yours.”

“Thank you,” said Pitch, slightly frowning at her going sidetrack from his query.

Sara smiled pleasantly and took a step forward. Her thoughts echoed: “Stop, I shouldn’t be doing this, but he’s so nice. I know the best villains are the most charming, but maybe…” she rasped, swallowing her nerves. She finally responded, “I’m here to save you. I don’t think the Choirs are right.” Gulping down a second time, the child muttered softly, “Everyone deserves a second chance. Even if you killed someone!”

Her voice broke unevenly, and she glanced away guiltily. “I killed people accidentally!” Sara’s face was tight from the memory.

Raphael noticed the warlock wanted to press further on how she ‘accidentally’ killed people.

"Oh, Sara, that sounds awful,” sympathized Pitch, creasing his face with a genuine, worrisome stare at the girl. Even if he wanted to ask questions, time was ticking away. “I’ve made mistakes that I regret. Whatever your father says about me, all I was trying to do was defend myself.”

The Seer gawked at what her next move might be.

Sara glimmered, hopeful that someone finally understood her. “I was angry and wanted to defend myself from them lashing at me.” She whimpered and took another step.

Seven more minutes.

“Why did they want you to die? Who are ‘they’?” wondered Pitch. The Seer acknowledged how cunning this Gala could be because if he asked personal questions, he could try to make her feel closer to him.

Sara inched closer. Two more steps, and she would be at the glass wall. “The Choirs told me I should die.” She unconsciously looked behind her, fearful of spilling out what happened, as if she were double-checking and no one was listening in.

Taking a step forward, Sara whispered, “Because I’m part demon, I should die." Her eyes flared up, “and I think that the Choirs want to kill you because you are such a powerful warlock who has made a few mistakes, and that isn’t fair for them to murder you for that!”

“Maybe he isn’t a good warlock. Maybe he’s lying to me." Sara gazed at him, seeing the man utterly in despair and loss. The look was all too familiar: “No, he deserves a second chance, right?”

Pitch replied, “Many Galas hate me because I am a powerful yet unique warlock. No one understood the feeling of holding magic within me when I lost my temper. When I get mad, the Harmonies think I will kill them because I am blaming them for my feelings instead of me. However, that isn’t true.”

Touching his chest where his heart pounded, Pitch said, “I understand how you feel, Sara. Please, I don’t want to die.”

Sara’s thoughts echoed around the cell as she walked up to him and touched the glass: “I’ve made up my mind.”