He doesn’t have wings nor does he even know he could ask for one.

Because his life is all about listening to people’s wishes, not the other way round. His world is built upon four limited hues; sky blue, cloud white, silver hair and a golden heart –the last one is imperceptible but they tell him that way and he never doubts things they say.

Han is his name and that is all he’d ever known. It’s weird really because experience tells him that even the souls flying up to drop by at different layers of the skies on their way to paradise; they too have at least a little chunk of memories left. It doesn’t have to be much, just enough of an evidence to claim one used to exist on Earth.

Han doesn’t have memories or even a past to recall. Han is just that guy who steps on clouds and floats on free fall while the voices of mortals serve as lullaby for him though he never sleeps. Being lonely is never a concern because he never knows what a companion is, except for the times flying angels are generous enough to drop by. His life is all about invisible brushes and paints; whites and blues. There are constant prayers, more of them each day while he watches the Sun setting along the horizon from above. It's getting a little lonely now.

Han has his own job, like how Father Time is responsible of freezing the clock for them who pray earnestly. Except that his job is to paint, to make people happy.

Han paints faces of stillbirth babies when their parents gaze up skywards, just to tell them that these little angels will be faithfully waiting up here with their little wings.
Han paints rabbits for the young kids who bury their pets by the old playground.
Then there’s the time he carves roses and lilies for the fallen soldiers while the national anthem plays in the background of a solemn evening.
And there are as well, times when he stands there wondering if he himself has a face he’d want to paint. Any familiar face would be nice but sadly, he recalls nothing.

Earth seems like a pretty place looking from where he’s standing. It’s another colour he has yet to discover and Han loses count of the years passed while he’s stuck on duty. He can’t even remember the first time he begins painting clouds but what struck him the most is that he can’t remember how to feel. Mortals feel, at least that’s what they say thus Han thinks he’s probably never was one of them. Could he just be a myth that nobody knows about? Or could he just be something that doesn’t actually exist?

“I want to know how to feel.” He tells an archangel on a day when the skies are bluer than ever and the clouds march along as he speaks,
“I want to know how to remember.”

“You can’t feel, Han. Living people feel. We don’t.”

“Then give me life.” His words resonate like an open explosion, not a syllable remains a secret when it’s mentioned above,
“I won’t need long. I just want to try.” He says, “Please.”

The enormous wings sprout open and Han steps back blinded by the flash of lights when the archangel soars high traversing the blueness of the skies taking along the earnest wish of an immortal. Han gives one last look to the humble earth before he departs for his obligation.
It’s a far distance up here to down there and deep inside he wonders, will it hurt to fall?

* * *