“Micah, please report to loft room B.”
Anticipation made his shoulders twitch when the summons echoed through the air. His next assignment was the one! His wings. He floated a few inches above a sunbeam with happiness, quickly bringing himself back down before one of the Mentor Angels caught him. Looking around guiltily, he noted he was alone. It was hard to hide his joy at the chance. One more assignment and he qualified; one more soul and he would have the wings, his mark of benevolence. He wanted to throw a fist in the air and cheer. Instead he made his collected, if hurried, way to the lofts.
He’d worked hard over the centuries to earn his wings. Angels had very demanding jobs, though few realized it.
A gilt and ivory door appeared within the fluff of one of the concealings as he approached. Those were known as clouds on Earth. At that moment though, he didn’t care if they were called raspberry jam.
The concealing thinned as he neared, and when he lifted a hand as if in greeting to the glowing door, it opened.
After taking a final second to push back his wavy hair and straighten his pristine white robe—it didn’t hurt to look put together when meeting with his mentor—he entered the bright space.
The loft didn’t really resemble a room, which was why they were called lofts. Instead, they were large, open spaces flooded with sunlight or moonlight depending on when you were called, encased as they were in the cool, swirling masses of clouds. Each loft formed around the Mentor and the Book of Souls they guarded endlessly, assigning guardian angels to their duties with diligence and compassion. Every angel in service anticipated being called to the lofts, to serve not only their mentor, but the spirit of God himself. Every visit offered redemption, and a successful assignment brought them closer to their wings.