I remember vividly how my grandmother would tuck me into bed, whispering stories of unseen guardians who stood watch over my slumber with wings spun from starlight and silence. To a five-year-old, these were not merely characters from a storybook; they were invisible companions who occupied the quiet corners of my room, softening the harsh shadows cast by the moon. I would often leave a small space on my pillow, convinced that a celestial being might need a place to rest its head while keeping vigil. As I grew older, this childhood wonder didn't evaporate into the cynicism of adolescence as many expected it would. Instead, it matured into a profound, intuitive awareness of grace—a sense that life was punctuated by subtle interventions and quiet nudges that guided me through my most turbulent years. I began to recognize their presence not in glowing apparitions, but in the improbable timing of a stranger’s kindness, the sudden clarity that pierces through a fog of grief, or the inexplicable urge to turn left instead of right, narrowly avoiding a mishap. For me, angels have always represented the bridge between the mundane and the transcendent, serving as a constant reminder that we are never truly walking this path alone, even when the lights go out and the world feels impossibly vast.