Falling Angels

It was there I saw him—the boy. A stranger on the street. He couldn’t have been older than me—barefoot, his face pale with fear. A soldier’s rifle rose, and before I could even process it, the boy was gone. His life taken in a single, callous moment.
I froze, my chest tight, as the world seemed to tilt beneath me. That day, something shifted inside me. The innocence of skipping stones and laughter felt like a distant dream, shattered by the brutal reality of the world we lived in.
Jamal had watched the news with me that evening, his expression unusually solemn. “It’s not fair,” he said quietly, his voice trembling. “They think they can take whatever they want. Even lives.”
I didn’t have an answer for him.
The next day, we went to the river. Jamal handed me a stone, his grip firm as he looked me in the eye. “Promise me something, Seraph,” he said.
“What?”
“Don’t ever let them break you.”
I nodded, the promise felt heavy in my chest, as if i already knew it would be broken.
Jamal never made it past that winter. The soldiers came again, this time to our village, and in the chaos that followed, I lost him. When I found him, crumpled in the alley where we used to play, his face was still and peaceful, as though he had simply fallen asleep. But I knew the truth. The angel who had taught me to find the perfect stone was gone.
Now, fifteen years later, after flying from Miami, the streets of Hong Kong felt foreign, like they belonged to someone else. The old market where we had spent countless afternoons, browsing stalls and laughing with neighbors, was unrecognizable. The stalls had been overturned, their contents spilled out like forgotten memories—fragments of wood and metal, the broken glass of trinkets, and the faint, sickly smell of burned food and diesel.
The buildings, once proud and full of life, now stood like hollowed-out husks, their windows shattered, bullet holes piercing the wooden stands. The people had changed, too. Fear etched itself into their faces, their eyes darting nervously. Conversations were hushed, as though even words could betray them. I remembered an old man, with a droopy face, carrying a sack of food on his shoulders, placing it in front of three young kids. He then placed his hands on his face and sobbed.
And yet, as I stood there, I couldn’t help but feel a flicker of longing. I thought of Jamal, of the stones we skipped, of the days when the river seemed endless and hope felt tangible. I thought about our brotherly love, his unwavering smile, and the stories that warmed us even during the harsh winters.