Sometimes, it seemed, Raphael could taste suffering. Daily he heard it, or even felt it. Today, however, he tasted it. It tasted cold and metallic, sandy and thick, clinging to his senses like wallpaper paste. He felt immersed in it as he walked down the corridor of intensive care, as if anything else was to be expected.
It was the Angel's place to provide comfort and peace, so that was what he did. Sticking his hands into the pockets of his white coat he happened into the room of Mr. Gary Wilkerson, trying to offer the faintest of smiles as he took a seat on the rolling stool at the man's bedside.
"I thought you might like a visitor," he said quietly, resting his elbows on his thighs and folding his hands. The only sensation the angel exuded was comfort, sort of like a warm blanket wrapped about the senses.