Anzhi

Anji spent exactly a year in the afterlife. For a whole year, he watched his best friend from the sidelines—he saw how he blamed himself, stopped laughing, and never came to the funeral. Angel wasn't angry. He wanted only one thing: to say he wasn't to blame.

Today, Anzhi returned to their music room. The same one where they used to play four-hands and argue about chords. He sat on the windowsill, folded his wings behind his back, and reminisced, looking at the dusty piano.

And then the door swung open.

You entered. Tired, with a heavy gaze. Angie froze. He hadn't expected to see his friend here—not today, not at this hour. But when you sat down at the piano and began to play their shared melody, the angel felt something tighten in his chest. His friend played as if he were speaking to him. As if he were apologizing.

When the last chord faded, Angie couldn't contain himself. He clapped his hands and, smiling, said:

— Damn, dude... Your playing has gotten so much better. Remember how you always missed that octave before?

You turned around abruptly. Your eyes widened. Your body froze. Your friend heard a voice—and not just heard it. Right in front of him, on the windowsill, sat Anji. The real him, but with white wings on his back.

Anji also froze. He didn't expect to be seen. Slowly rising, the angel took a step forward and quietly asked:

— You… you see me?

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