Morning greeted me with a gray fog enveloping Los Angeles. I stood across from the First National Bank on Wilshire, watching the stream of people hurrying to work with coffee cups in hand and phones pressed to their ears. Ordinary people with ordinary concerns, unaware that today one of them would cross the line separating an honest citizen from a criminal.
At 6:47 a.m., I saw her.
Emma Carter, twenty-six, a nurse in the pediatric ward at Cedars-Sinai Hospital. Painfully thin, with yellowish skin and dark circles under her eyes, she sat on a park bench across from the bank, clutching a crumpled envelope. Her tremor was barely noticeable to human eyes, but I could see the disease devouring her from within, cancer cells multiplying in her lungs, liver, and bones.
She had four days left. Five at most if she stayed still.
"Punctuality—a rare quality among Archangels," came a familiar voice behind me.
Didi materialized beside me, this time dressed in jeans and a black leather jacket. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, and she wore sunglasses despite the overcast weather.
"How long have you been here?" I asked, not taking my eyes off Emma.
"Just arrived. Wanted to make sure you didn't back out." She stuffed her hands in her pockets and nodded toward the woman. "How's she doing?"
"A dying mother of two, about to do something foolish for money to fund their education. Not good."
"More precisely—a desperate woman who sees no other way out." There was no judgment in Didi's voice, only sad understanding. "Her insurance only covers basic treatment. Her house is mortgaged. Her husband died in a crash a year ago, leaving debts. Her kids—Lily, eight, and Thomas, five—live with her mother, who's barely scraping by."
I glanced at her.
"How do you know such details?"
"I looked into her case." Didi shrugged. "When you know someone's exact date of death, you can't help but get curious about how they'll spend their final days."
Emma stood from the bench, checked the time on her phone, and began slowly approaching the bank. Her gait was unsteady, each step requiring effort. In her right jeans pocket—a toy gun, bought yesterday at a store for four dollars. In her left—a note apologizing to her family and asking them to use her insurance if she died.
"She really thinks this will work?" I muttered, watching.
"People in despair rarely think logically." Didi took off her sunglasses and wiped them with a cloth. "Her plan's painfully simple: walk in, show the 'weapon,' demand a small sum, let herself get arrested. In her mind, a prison hospital will provide medical care, and the arrest will draw media attention to her story. Maybe sponsors will step in for her kids."
"Foolish."
"Desperate." Didi corrected me. "There's a difference."
Emma stopped at the bank's entrance, staring at the glass doors. Her hand trembled as she reached for the handle. Her heart raced so fast I could hear it from a distance. Adrenaline mixed with the morphine she took for pain, creating a cocktail of desperation and resolve.
"Time to act," I said, starting toward her.
"Mikey," Didi called after me. "Remember: she's not a villain. She's a mother."
I nodded and crossed the street.
"Excuse me," I called out to Emma as she nearly touched the door. "Do you have a minute?"
She turned, blinking in fear. Up close, her condition was even more apparent: bluish lips, shallow breathing, jaundiced sclera. But her eyes burned with a fire—not of anger, but of love. Maternal, unconditional, ready to do anything for her children.
"I… I need to go inside," she mumbled, stepping back.
"Emma Carter," I said softly. "Pediatric ward nurse. Mother of Lily and Thomas."
Her eyes widened in terror.
"Who are you? A cop? I haven't done anything! Not yet…"
"I'm not a cop." I raised my hands in a gesture of peace. "And I know you haven't done anything yet. But you're about to."
She took another step back, her hand instinctively reaching for the pocket with the toy gun.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"About the twenty thousand dollars you want to get to leave something for your kids' future. About the doctors giving you a week. About you being willing to sacrifice your remaining days for Lily and Thomas."
Emma swayed as if I'd struck her. Tears welled in her eyes.
"You don't understand," she whispered through sobs. "I have no choice. They'll be left with nothing. My mom's barely surviving on her pension, and the kids… Lily wants to be a doctor, like her dad. Thomas is so smart, he could get into any university. But without money…"
"Let's sit," I suggested, pointing to a nearby bench. "Let's talk."
"I don't have time to talk!"
"Emma, you have time." I spoke carefully, trying not to scare her further. "Four days. Maybe five. Isn't it worth spending half an hour to make sure you're making the right choice?"
She stared at me for a long time, her gaze a mix of fear and curiosity. The tears stopped.
"How do you know about the four days?"
"It's hard to explain." I gently took her arm, guiding her to the bench. "But trust me: I want to help. You and your children."
We sat. Emma clutched the envelope so tightly her knuckles whitened.
"Do you know what's the worst part about dying?" she asked, staring at the sky. "Not the pain. Not the fear of the unknown. It's the thought that your kids will think you abandoned them. That you could've fought longer but chose not to."
"And what will they think if their mother dies in a prison hospital after a robbery attempt?"
She flinched.
"But they'll have money…"
"What money, Emma?" I turned to her. "Insurance only pays out for natural death. If you're arrested for attempted robbery, even if you die of cancer later, the company will find a way to avoid paying. And your kids will be left with the memory of a mother who turned to crime."
Her face paled further.
"But the media… people sometimes help when they hear stories like this…"
"And sometimes they don't." I spoke gently but firmly. "Sometimes people judge those who try to cheat the system. Sometimes kids get bullied at school because their mother 'robbed banks.'"
Emma buried her face in her hands and cried. Quietly, restrained, the way people cry when they're used to hiding pain.
"Then what do I do?" she sobbed. "I've tried everything. I reached out to charities, wrote letters to wealthy people, set up crowdfunding pages. Nothing works. And time's running out…"
I glanced across the street, where Didi leaned against a lamppost, watching us with intrigued curiosity, like she was watching a gripping film whose ending only she knew.
"What if I told you there's another way?"
Emma lifted her head, a spark of hope in her eyes.
"What way?"
"Tell me about your work. What you did at the hospital."
"I… I worked in the pediatric oncology ward." Her voice trembled. "I cared for young patients, helped them cope with fear, explained procedures to parents…"
"You saved lives."
"Not me. The doctors saved lives. I just… I was there."
"Emma," I leaned toward her, "you have no idea how many people remember you with gratitude. How many kids felt braver because you held their hand during procedures. How many parents found the strength to keep fighting because you explained what was happening to their child."
"But that was my job…"
"No. Your job was to administer medicine and monitor vitals. What you did—comforting, supporting, giving hope—that was your choice. Your gift."
I stood from the bench and offered her my hand.
"Come with me."
"Where?"
"Trust me. Just for an hour."
Emma hesitated, glancing between me and the bank. Then, slowly, she took my hand and stood.
We walked down the street, me supporting her arm when bouts of weakness forced her to pause. Didi followed at a distance, sometimes vanishing from sight, but I felt her presence.
"Where are we going?" Emma asked as we turned toward the hospital.
"To your colleagues."
"But I quit two weeks ago. When I realized… I wouldn't last long."
"I know. But they miss you."
We entered the hospital through the main entrance. Emma walked uncertainly, clearly unsure why I'd brought her here. At the elevator, a young nurse in blue scrubs greeted us.
"Emma!" she exclaimed, rushing to hug my companion. "God, it's so good to see you! How are you?"
"Hey, Sarah," Emma tried to smile. "I'm… holding on."
"We all miss you so much. The ward's not the same without you." Sarah took her hands. "Remember little Jason Miller? The boy with leukemia who was always crying?"
"Of course I remember."
"He's in remission! Full recovery! And you know what he told his mom before discharge? That he wants to see 'Angel Emma' again, the one who read him bedtime stories."
Emma's eyes filled with tears.
"He… recovered?"
"Yes! And Sophie Clark too. And the Rodriguez twins." Sarah beamed. "Emma, you can't imagine how many kids ask about you. Some are still making you cards."
We went up to the fourth floor, the pediatric oncology ward. As soon as Emma appeared in the corridor, nurses, doctors, even the janitor who'd worked there for twenty years rushed to her.
"Emma! Our angel's back!"
"We were so worried about you!"
"The kids keep asking when you'll come visit!"
I stood aside, watching Emma's face light up with each hug, each warm word. She wasn't just a worker here—she was part of a family she hadn't even realized she had.
"Emma," the head of the department, Dr. Genevieve Hartman, approached her. "Can we talk privately?"
They stepped aside. I could hear every word of their conversation but pretended to study the children's drawings on the wall.
"We know about your diagnosis," Dr. Hartman said quietly. "Sarah told us. Emma, I want to offer you something."
"If it's about work, I can't. I'm too weak…"
"Not work. Legacy." Dr. Hartman took her hand. "We want to create the Emma Carter Fund to help families of children with cancer. For care, treatment, support. And we want you to be its first trustee."
Emma froze.
"But I… I don't have money…"
"We have money. The hospital administration allocated seed funding. A few private donors are already interested. We need your name, your story, your experience." Dr. Hartman smiled through her sadness. "Emma, you could help hundreds of families. Even after… even when you're gone, your help will continue."
"And my children?"
"The fund will cover their education. Fully. From school to college." Dr. Hartman pulled a folder of documents from her pocket. "It's already decided, Emma. Whether you agree to lead the fund or not."
Emma sank onto the nearest chair, the papers slipping from her trembling hands.
"Why? Why are you doing this?"
"Because in five years here, you've changed more lives than most do in a career." Dr. Hartman sat beside her. "The kids remember your kindness. Parents remember your support. We, your colleagues, remember your dedication. You think you're insignificant, but you're wrong."
I approached Emma and gently touched her shoulder.
"See?" I said softly. "All this time, you were searching for a way to leave a legacy for your children. It already exists. In every child you comforted. In every family you gave hope. In every life you made a little better."
Emma looked up at me, her eyes full of tears and amazement.
"Who are you?"
"Someone learning that true strength lies not in judging but in seeing the best in people."
We left the hospital an hour later. Emma carried the folder of fund documents and a bouquet of flowers from her colleagues. Her face glowed in a way it probably hadn't in months.
"Thank you," she said, stopping at the entrance. "I don't know who you are, but… thank you. You showed me I meant more than I thought."
"I didn't show you that. I just brought you to the people who already knew."
"And the bank?"
"What bank?" I smiled.
She smiled back and pulled the toy gun from her pocket.
"Such a stupid idea. I don't know what came over me."
Emma tossed the plastic toy into a trash can and headed toward the bus stop. I watched her walk away—still terminally ill, still with four days left, but now knowing her death wouldn't be an end but the start of something meaningful.
"Not bad for a first try," Didi said, materializing beside me.
"You were there the whole time?" I asked, sensing her emanating Power.
"In the ward with Jason Miller. Sweet kid, by the way. Really did call her an angel." Didi followed Emma with her gaze. "Though, technically, we cheated."
"How so?"
"The Emma Carter Fund didn't exist until this morning." Her voice carried amusement. "Someone visited Dr. Hartman in a dream last night and planted the idea."
I looked at her and simply asked. I hadn't done such a thing.
"You?"
"I just… gave the process a nudge. The idea was already floating around; it just needed a catalyst." Didi shrugged. "You said you wanted to help her find a better path. I just made sure the path existed."
"That's not fair."
"Why? Because you didn't use heavenly connections?" Didi laughed. "Mikey, sweetie, you're an Archangel. You have the power to shape the world. The question is how you use it."
We walked slowly down the street. The sun finally broke through the morning clouds, bathing the city in warm light.
"You know what's most interesting about this story?" Didi continued. "Emma's still going to die in four days. The cancer's unstoppable. But now she'll die a hero, not a criminal. Her kids will get not just money but a legacy they can be proud of."
"Isn't death always a tragedy?"
"Death is a transition." Didi's voice carried the ancient wisdom of millennia. "The tragedy is when people die without understanding why they lived. Emma knows now."
We stopped at the corner, where our paths were to part.
"What's next?" I asked.
"What do you want to do next?"
I paused, thinking. Just yesterday, my plan was simple: judge sinners, restore justice. Today, everything had changed. I saw that sometimes help mattered more than punishment, understanding more than judgment. Choice mattered.
"I want more stories like this," I said finally. "I want to learn to see not just sin but the reasons behind it. I want to help people make the right choices instead of punishing them for the wrong ones."
"Sounds like a plan." Didi smiled. "And what about the Silver City? Sooner or later, Daddy will notice you're gone."
"Let Him notice." There was new confidence in my voice. "I've found my purpose. Not the one assigned to me, but the one I chose myself."
"Rebellion?" Her eyes sparkled with mischief.
"Evolution."
Didi burst into laughter—clear, joyful, infectious. A few passersby turned at the sound and couldn't help but smile.
"I like this version of you, Mikey." She stood on her tiptoes and kissed my cheek. "We'll see each other again."
"Will we?"
"Oh, yes." Didi stepped back, her figure beginning to dissolve into the air. "I have a feeling your new path will lead to some very interesting consequences. And I love interesting consequences."
She vanished, leaving behind only the scent of autumn leaves and a faint laugh.
I stood at the corner of Wilshire and Bunker Hill, in the heart of Los Angeles, as the city buzzed with its usual life around me. People hurried about their business, fell in love, argued, reconciled, made choices. Each carried the potential for both good and evil. Each deserved a chance at a better choice.
For the first time in millions of years, I felt not duty but calling. Not obligation but desire.
A true, personal desire.
I headed toward the city center, where I already sensed a new story demanding attention. Somewhere out there, a young man was making a decision that could ruin his life. Somewhere, an elderly woman was losing faith in humanity. Somewhere, a child needed protection.
And I walked toward them—not as a judge but as a teacher. Not as a punisher but as a guide.
I was learning to be alive. And that was the most important lesson in my infinite existence.
***