Her breath grew heavy. Her gaze turned toward the main room and then, hesitantly, she went to the kitchen; a scent of fresh carrots and a little salt hung in the air. She stood at the doorway and said, “Mother, I’ve had a fever for a while…” Monica, who was chopping carrots carefully, paused for a moment. The knife hung in the air and her eyes dropped to the floor. Her gentle smile seemed to freeze: “You’ve had a fever for two days…” and then she fell silent.

Astia’s mind drifted back to the moments when her mother behaved like that — angry. Monica’s hair rose in the air like snakes ready to strike. Astia remembered that when her mother was like that it meant she had to be careful.

“That inconsiderate bastard — how could he pour water on your head and force you to wipe his window panes for hours!” Monica said, and with renewed energy chopped the carrots. Astia stepped back; her insides trembled but a small smile crept onto her lips. Her mother’s angry face was both frightening and strangely endearing.

Astia thought maybe getting soaked had caused the fever and the fever had sent her to another world — a world that might be a dream… or perhaps a truth from the future. She sat on a kitchen chair, placed her small hands on the table, and breathed slowly. Her mind was full of everything she had experienced so far. She began to review all she knew.

She still didn’t know her family name for certain or even whether she should learn her father’s name. From the moment she was born she had never felt her father’s presence and her mother had never spoken of him. So she had gotten used to using her mother’s family name, Darxil: Astia Darxil — the half-demon angel of Heaven, known and hidden between worlds… at least for two more months.

She lived in one of Heaven’s poor districts; a town far from the empire’s capital, where the sun always slanted and the roofs always leaked. She had a scant reputation, because when other children’s parents scolded them, the weary, angry parents would say, “Try to be half like Astia.” Astia knew that by the age of forty — roughly six human years — she had worked so hard it felt as if the future of the whole world had been placed on her shoulders.

She knew her mother couldn’t manage the household expenses by herself, because Monica was a demon. The people of the neighborhood also knew what kind of being lived among them. For now the only work she had was at a bar; a place smelling of sharp alcohol and fake laughter, full of proud, narcissistic angels. Despite all the hardships, Astia loved her mother. She was proud of her from the bottom of her heart, because she had never seen anyone more beautiful. In that dust-eaten neighborhood, her mother was the only person who was both beautiful and clever and “badass” — that kind of badass that no one dared to look at her little girl sideways.

Astia’s mother was strong, clever, and terrifying to anyone who intended harm. Her hair was brown and soft like cocoa, her eyes red and bright like rare flowers, her skin fair and rosy so every dress suited her and she seemed like a fairy rather than a demon. Men would sometimes appear, but none of them dared come close because her mother sometimes turned into a venomous snake; her hair would dance in the air and her fists ready to strike.

Astia hadn’t yet become strong enough to stand up to everyone like her mother. She worked in a shop that sold glassware, where the smell of cleaners seeped to the bone and she had to make the floors shine and polish nobles’ glasses as if they didn’t exist. But if one day her hand trembled or a corner went dusty, the cruel, adult shop owner would beat her with fists and kicks. Sometimes she would faint, feel dizzy, hear ringing in her ears, taste blood in her mouth, her vision blur and stars — whether real or signs of pain — would spin around her head.

But for Astia one thing mattered more than anything: she only wanted her mother to smile. She remembered certain things vividly — not by forcing memories out, but as if an iron door had struck her mind; clear, pounding, and unforgettable. Even now that she had returned to the past, some scenes followed her like suffocating shadows. She couldn’t tell anyone. She couldn’t stand in the street and shout, “Hello! I’m from the future. I’m going to shake half of Heaven apart!” because people would probably come after her with slippers and pots like they were chasing a chicken thief.

Maybe this place was poor, but for Astia it was better than the golden palace and marble houses of the noble angels. There were no cameras, no special guards, no secret spies breathing in the shadows. She ached for her mother; she had never understood why they had never gone to the royal palace. The current emperor might not be a cruel man — he might even be able to help — so why had they always run? Why had they always lived on the margins?

She raised her head and her thoughts unraveled. Her gaze fell on the woman’s face and she wanted to cry, but she couldn’t. Her heart felt squeezed and everything she had known until now seemed meaningless.