Ilphated
Everyone Has Angels Looking Over Them
By Illphated
Out on the edge of the cliffs where the wind bites harder than regret, she stood—arms crossed, green eyes steady, back against the lighthouse. Her name wasn’t important to most folks. Around these parts, she was just the Cowgirl at Beacon Rock.
Some said she watched for storms. Others whispered she kept bandits away. But those who knew better understood—she was there for the souls no one else remembered.
The lighthouse behind her wasn’t just a warning for ships; it was a symbol. A promise that no matter how dark the night, someone stood watch. And whether you believed in angels or not, they believed in you.
High above, behind sunset-tinted clouds, you could almost see them if you looked hard enough. Wings outstretched, quiet eyes cast downward. They weren’t just in churches or prayers—they were stitched into the very fabric of the West.
For the cowgirl, that wasn’t just poetry—it was her life. She had lost too many to pretend otherwise. Her father to the mines, her brother to the war, her mother to time itself. But standing there, she still felt them. Every gust of wind on her cheek, every ripple of light on the waves below—proof they hadn’t really left.
So she kept her post, boots planted firm, hat tilted low. Watching. Waiting. Protecting. A living reminder that everyone—everyone—has angels looking over them.
Even if they don’t always see it.
