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Prologue

REBECCA

The celestial chimes ring out, their annoyingly perfect tones cutting through my last-minute scroll through HaloHub—heaven’s social media. I roll my eyes, reluctantly pocketing my phone and smoothing down my shimmering robe. It’s like wearing a prom dress 24/7, I swear. As I plop down into my seat at the Angel Institute’s classroom, the wooden chair lets out a pathetic creak. Great, even the furniture here is goody-two-shoes, apologizing for making noise.

I glance around the room, trying not to look too impressed. The walls are doing their usual dance of golden light, like some cosmic lava lamp. Above us, the ceiling’s gone into full planetarium mode, stars twinkling away like they’re auditioning for a celestial talent show. It’s beautiful, sure, but would it kill them to change it up once in a while? Maybe some clouds, or I don’t know, a supernova?

My fingers drum an impatient rhythm on the desk. It’s cool and smooth, probably some heavenly wood that never gets splinters. Glowing symbols pulse beneath my fingertips, and I trace one absentmindedly. A little zap of divine energy shoots through me, and I jerk my hand back. Seriously? Even the furniture’s trying to teach us lessons now?

The air’s thick with the smell of celestial flowers—jasmine mixed with something so pure it makes my nose itch. It’s like being stuck in a heavenly Bath & Body Works. I miss the smell of coffee, of city streets after rain, of anything real and a little bit messy.

As I wait for our mentor to arrive, I can’t help but feel a twinge of frustration. This isn’t where I expected to be at 22. In my earthly life, I was Rebecca Goldstein, a driven and successful young woman with big dreams and even bigger ambitions—until I had run in with a bus and the bus won.

But here I am, stuck in guardian angel training—the only way out of my current heavenly vocation. My perfectly manicured nails tap an impatient rhythm on the desk as I recall my initial excitement at being assigned the role of heavenly weather forecaster. I thought it would be prestigious, important. Instead, it’s become a source of mockery among the other angels. After all, what’s the point of predicting weather in a realm of perpetual sunshine and warmth—there are only so many ways to say, “sunny and clear”.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulls me from my brooding. Henry, our mentor, enters the room with his usual air of genial authority. His silver hair catches the starlight, creating a halo effect that reminds me of the illustrations in children’s Bible stories. His kind blue eyes twinkle as he surveys the class, and I feel a mixture of affection and exasperation. Henry’s unfailing optimism is both endearing and grating to my more cynical nature.

“Good morning, my dear angels in training,” Henry greets us, his voice warm and rich like honey. “I trust you’re all ready for another day of learning and growth?”

A chorus of enthusiastic responses fills the air. I mumble a half-hearted “Yes, Henry,” trying to muster some semblance of excitement. Henry’s gaze lingers on me for a moment, and I see a flicker of understanding in his eyes. He knows I’m struggling, but he never pushes or criticizes. It’s the thing I grudgingly admire about him.

“Today, we’re going to discuss a very special aspect of our duties as guardian angels,” Henry begins, moving to stand behind the intricately carved wooden lectern at the front of the room. “We’ll be exploring the concept of divine intervention and how we can guide our charges towards their true paths without infringing upon their free will.”

I lean forward slightly, my interest piqued despite myself. This sounds more substantial than our usual lessons on angel etiquette—like not popping in on them in the restroom.

“Remember,” Henry continues, his voice taking on a more serious tone, “our role is not to make decisions for the humans in our care, but to gently nudge them towards the light. We are guides, not puppeteers.”

As Henry speaks, I feel a familiar sense of restlessness stirring within me. I want to do more, to make a real difference. Predicting sunny days and balmy breezes seems so... inconsequential.

“Rebecca,” Henry’s voice cuts through my thoughts, startling me. “Would you care to share your thoughts on the balance between guidance and free will?”

I blink, surprised. “Well,” I begin, trying to gather my thoughts, “I suppose it’s about... providing opportunities? Showing them the right path without forcing them down it?”

Henry nods encouragingly. “That’s a good start. Can you elaborate on how you might apply this in your current role?”

I feel a flush of embarrassment creep up my neck. “In my weather forecasting?” I ask, unable to keep the note of disdain from my voice. “I’m not sure how predicting perfect weather day after day really guides anyone, Henry.”

A ripple of whispers and giggles passes through the classroom. I lift my chin defiantly, expecting a reprimand. But Henry just smiles, his eyes twinkling with that infuriating, knowing look.

“Ah, Rebecca,” he says gently. “You’re so focused on the grandeur of the task that you’re missing its true significance. Tell me, how do you think your forecasts affect the moods of those around you?”

I pause, considering. “I... I suppose a sunny forecast might make them happier?” I venture hesitantly.

Henry beams. “Exactly. And how might that happiness influence their actions, their interactions with others?”

As the implications of his words sink in, I feel a slight shift in my perspective. Could my seemingly trivial job actually have a ripple effect on the entire heavenly community?

“I see you’re beginning to understand,” Henry says softly. “Every role, no matter how small it may seem, has the potential to create significant change. It’s not about the task itself, but the spirit with which we approach it.”

I nod slowly, a mixture of emotions swirling within me. Part of me still longs for something more dramatic, more obviously important. But I can’t deny the logic in Henry’s words.

“Now,” Henry continues, addressing the entire class once more, “I have some exciting news. It’s time for your final assignments.”

A buzz of excitement fills the room. My heart races. This is it—a chance to prove myself, to do something more than recite the weather.

Henry begins calling out names and handing out scrolls. I listen with growing impatience, waiting to hear mine. Finally, Henry turns to me.

“Rebecca,” he says, his voice warm but serious. “Your assignment.” He hands me a scroll of ivory parchment with a gold seal.

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