# Bite of Destiny
## Chapter 4: Aylin's Faith
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The rain began on a Thursday.
It started as a gentle mist, the kind that Demri had observed countless times from the celestial vantage point—water vapor condensing into droplets, gathering into clouds, falling to earth in an endless cycle that sustained all mortal life. But observing rain and experiencing rain, he was discovering, were entirely different phenomena. The mist soaked through his borrowed jacket within minutes, plastering his hair to his forehead and sending rivulets of cold water down the back of his neck.
"You look like a drowned cat," Aylin observed, pulling him under the awning of a closed bakery. "Did you not think to check the weather before we left?"
"I did not realize checking the weather was a thing one did."
"It's literally the first thing everyone does every morning. There are apps for it. Websites. That little icon on your phone that looks like a sun or a cloud."
"I don't have a phone."
Aylin stared at him with an expression that suggested he had just admitted to not having lungs. "You don't have a... how do you function?"
"With increasing difficulty, apparently."
She laughed—that warm, unexpected sound that seemed to improve any situation—and shook her head. "Okay. New priority. We're getting you a phone. A cheap one, nothing fancy, but something so you can check the weather and call me if you get lost."
"I do not get lost."
"You got lost yesterday. In the grocery store."
"The layout was counterintuitive."
"It was organized by food group. That's as intuitive as it gets." She peered out at the rain, which had intensified from mist to steady downpour. "We're going to be stuck here for a while. The community center can wait."
Demri leaned against the bakery's door, feeling the cold glass through his jacket. Two weeks had passed since he had moved into Aylin's apartment, and in that time, his life had settled into something approaching routine. Mornings were spent navigating the bureaucratic necessities of mortal existence—applying for jobs, filling out forms, learning to use the bewildering array of technology that humans apparently required for basic function. Afternoons were often spent at the community center, where Demri had begun volunteering in exchange for the documentation assistance Maria was providing. Evenings belonged to Aylin, to shared meals and conversations that stretched late into the night.
It was, he had to admit, a good life. Simple, perhaps, by celestial standards. But good.
*Simple*, the curse agreed, *and temporary. How long do you think this can last?*
He pushed the voice aside and focused on the rain. It fell in sheets now, transforming the street into a river of reflected light and rushing water. A child splashed through a puddle, shrieking with delight while her mother hurried after, umbrella deployed like a shield against the deluge. An elderly man in a worn coat shuffled past, seemingly oblivious to the weather, his attention fixed on something only he could see.
"What are you thinking about?"
Demri turned to find Aylin watching him with that curious expression she often wore—part interest, part concern, part something he could not quite name. "The rain," he said. "How it changes things."
"Changes things how?"
"Everything looks different in the rain. Softer. The hard edges blur, and the colors become... muted, I suppose. It's like the world is wearing a veil."
Aylin considered this, tilting her head in a way that reminded him of a bird examining something unexpected. "That's very poetic for someone who didn't know to check the weather."
"Poetry and practicality are not mutually exclusive."
"They usually are, in my experience." She turned to look at the rain herself, and something in her posture shifted—a subtle relaxation, as if the downpour had given her permission to let down some invisible guard. "I used to love the rain when I was a kid. My grandmother would tell me it was the sky crying for all the sadness in the world, and that if we collected the raindrops, we were helping to carry some of that sadness."
"That's a beautiful belief."
"It's a Turkish thing. Or maybe just a grandmother thing—I'm not sure which." A small smile touched her lips. "We would put out bowls and jars to catch the rain, and then we'd water the garden with it. She said it made the flowers grow stronger because they were fed by compassion."
Demri felt something stir in his chest—not the hunger, which had grown mercifully quieter in Aylin's presence, but something warmer. Tenderness, perhaps. Or recognition. "Your grandmother sounds like a wise woman."
"She was. She died three years ago—that's when my parents moved back to Turkey. To be closer to the family, they said, but I think they just couldn't stand the memories." Aylin's voice carried a familiar weight, the kind that accumulated around old grief like sediment around a stone. "She's the one who taught me about faith."
"Faith in what?"
The question came out before Demri could stop it, and he immediately wished he could take it back. Faith was dangerous territory—too close to his own divine origins, too likely to provoke questions he could not answer. But Aylin did not seem to find the question strange. She simply nodded, as if she had been waiting for him to ask.
"Faith in goodness, I guess. Not in any particular god or religion—my family is Muslim, but I've never been very observant. More like... faith that the universe tends toward compassion. That people, deep down, want to help each other. That even in the worst darkness, there's always a light somewhere."
*A pure one*, the curse whispered. *Speaking of light while standing next to the darkness incarnate. The irony is exquisite.*
Demri ignored it. "That's a difficult faith to maintain. The world provides ample evidence to the contrary."
"I know. Believe me, I know." Aylin's gaze remained fixed on the rain, but her expression had grown distant. "I've seen things that should have broken that faith a hundred times over. Kids who never had a chance, families torn apart by things beyond their control, good people destroyed by systems that don't care whether they live or die. Sometimes I wonder if I'm just being naive—if believing in goodness is just a way of avoiding the reality that the universe is cold and indifferent and we're all just... stumbling around in the dark."
She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer. "But then something happens. Something small. A stranger helps someone they don't know. A kid who was heading for disaster turns their life around. A moment of genuine connection in the middle of all the chaos. And I think—maybe that's the point. Maybe faith isn't about believing the universe is good. Maybe it's about choosing to add goodness to it, even when everything suggests it doesn't matter."
Demri was silent for a long moment, processing her words. In heaven, faith had been a transaction—mortals believed, celestials protected, and the cosmic order maintained its balance. But Aylin spoke of faith as something entirely different. Not a bargain but a choice. Not a guarantee but a commitment.
"That sounds exhausting," he said finally.
"It is." She smiled, and the sadness in her eyes eased slightly. "But the alternative is worse."
---
The rain continued for another hour before finally tapering to a drizzle. They walked the rest of the way to the community center, stepping around puddles and dodging the spray from passing cars, arriving damp but not drenched. Maria met them at the door with towels and the expression of a woman who had seen far worse than wet volunteers.
"You look like you swam here," she said, pressing a towel into Demri's hands. "There's fresh coffee in the back. Go warm up before you catch pneumonia."
"Pneumonia is caused by bacteria, not cold weather," Demri said before he could stop himself.
Maria fixed him with a look that somehow managed to be both withering and affectionate. "Then go warm up before I catch the urge to throw you back out in the rain."
The community center was quiet today—the weather had kept most of the regulars home—which gave Demri an opportunity to observe its operation without the usual chaos. Maria ran the front desk with the efficiency of a general commanding troops, directing resources and solving problems with a combination of brisk authority and genuine warmth. Behind her, a small army of staff and volunteers managed the various programs: tutoring in the main hall, job training in the computer lab, counseling in the small offices that lined the back corridor.
And at the center of it all, moving between spaces with easy familiarity, was Aylin.
Demri watched her as she circulated through the building, pausing to check on a teenager struggling with algebra, exchanging words with a woman who had come seeking help with her immigration paperwork, mediating a dispute between two elderly men over the proper way to play dominoes. In each interaction, she radiated that same quiet faith she had described under the bakery awning—a belief in human goodness that seemed to draw it forth from everyone she encountered.
*She makes them better*, he realized. *Just by being present. Just by believing in them.*
It was, in its own way, a form of power. Not the kind he had wielded in heaven—dramatic, imposing, backed by cosmic authority—but something subtler and perhaps more profound. The power to change people not through force but through faith.
*And you could corrupt her*, the curse reminded him. *That light she carries—you could extinguish it. Turn her faith to ash. Make her one of the fallen.*
The thought made Demri physically ill. He set down his coffee cup with a clatter and pressed his palms against the table, fighting a wave of nausea that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his stomach.
"Hey." Aylin's voice, close beside him. He had not heard her approach. "Are you okay? You look pale."
"I'm fine." The words came out strained. "Just... adjusting to the coffee."
She studied him with those perceptive dark eyes, clearly not convinced but willing to let it pass. "Well, if you're done adjusting, I could use some help. The tutoring volunteer called in sick, and there are three kids who need someone to go over their reading assignments."
"I don't know if I'm qualified—"
"Can you read?"
"Yes, but—"
"Then you're qualified. Come on."
She took his hand—a casual gesture, the kind friends made without thinking—and led him toward the main hall. Her touch sent a jolt through Demri's system that had nothing to do with the curse. Warmth. Connection. The simple reality of another being choosing to make contact.
*Dangerous*, the curse warned. *You are becoming attached.*
But Demri was beginning to wonder if attachment was exactly what he needed.
---
The children were named Marcus, Sofia, and James. Marcus was twelve, serious and studious, already reading above his grade level but lacking confidence in his abilities. Sofia was nine, bright-eyed and curious, prone to asking questions that veered wildly off-topic. James was seven, the youngest of the group, and clearly wished he were anywhere else in the world.
"I hate reading," James announced before Demri could even introduce himself. "It's boring and stupid and I don't see why I have to do it."
"Reading is the foundation of all knowledge," Demri said, falling back on language he had used in celestial councils. "Without it, you would be unable to access the wisdom of those who came before you."
James stared at him blankly. "What?"
"He means you can't learn stuff if you can't read," Marcus translated. "Which is true, but it doesn't make it less boring."
Demri considered the challenge before him. In heaven, knowledge had been transmitted through direct celestial communion—thoughts and concepts flowing between minds without the intermediary of language. Reading had been unnecessary, almost quaint. But here, among mortals, it was the primary vehicle for the transmission of ideas. And these children were struggling with it.
"What do you find boring about it?" he asked James. "Specifically?"
"All of it." James crossed his arms defensively. "The words are too long and they don't make sense and by the time I figure out what one sentence means, I've forgotten what the last one said."
"I see." Demri pulled one of the reading assignments from the pile. It was a story about a dog who gets lost and finds his way home—simple enough, he would have thought, but the text was dense with vocabulary that seemed deliberately chosen to frustrate young readers. "This book is poorly designed."
James's eyes widened. "Adults aren't supposed to say that."
"I am not most adults." Demri set the book aside and leaned forward, meeting James's eyes directly. "What if we did something different? What if, instead of reading this book, you told me a story?"
"I don't know any stories."
"Everyone knows stories. Tell me about something that happened to you. Something interesting."
James considered this suspiciously, clearly waiting for the catch. When none materialized, he began, hesitantly: "There was this time... when my mom took me to the zoo. And I got to feed the giraffes. They have really long tongues."
"Excellent. Continue."
And so James told his story—simple, rambling, full of tangents and repetitions—while Demri listened with genuine attention. Sofia and Marcus listened too, occasionally contributing their own observations about giraffes or zoos or the various animals they had encountered. By the time James finished, twenty minutes had passed, and his earlier hostility had melted into something approaching enthusiasm.
"Now," Demri said, "we're going to write that story down. Together. And then you're going to read it back to me."
"But I can't—"
"You can. Because these are your words. You already know them. The reading is just... remembering what you already said."
They worked on the story for another hour. Demri helped James sound out the words, praising small victories and gently correcting mistakes. Marcus contributed suggestions for more descriptive language, while Sofia insisted on illustrating the margins with increasingly elaborate giraffe drawings. By the end, they had produced a three-page booklet titled "The Day I Fed the Giraffes," and James was reading it aloud with a fluency he had never demonstrated before.
"That was actually kind of fun," he admitted, as if the confession cost him something.
"Reading often is, when you're reading something that matters to you."
"Are you going to be here tomorrow?"
Demri glanced at Aylin, who had been watching from across the room with an expression he could not quite interpret. "I don't know. We'll see."
---
The walk home was quieter than usual. Aylin seemed lost in thought, her attention fixed on the wet pavement as they navigated the puddle-strewn streets. The rain had stopped, leaving behind a world that smelled of ozone and renewal.
"You were really good with them," she said finally. "The kids."
"I simply tried a different approach."
"It wasn't just that. You actually listened to James. Most adults—most people—would have tried to force him back to the assigned reading. But you met him where he was."
Demri shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. "It seemed the logical course."
"It was more than logical. It was..." She paused, searching for the word. "Compassionate. Like you genuinely cared whether he succeeded."
*I did*, Demri realized with some surprise. *I genuinely did.*
It was not a sensation he was accustomed to. In heaven, caring had been abstract—a principle to be upheld rather than an emotion to be felt. But watching James struggle, watching the frustration and shame that accompanied his difficulties, had stirred something unexpectedly personal. The desire to help, not because it served some cosmic purpose, but simply because helping was the right thing to do.
"Thank you," he said. "For bringing me there. For showing me what you do."
Aylin smiled, but there was something different in it—a depth that had not been present before. "Can I ask you something? And you have to promise to be honest."
"I cannot promise honesty in the abstract. Ask the question, and I will do my best."
She stopped walking, turning to face him directly. The streetlights had begun to flicker on, casting long shadows across the wet pavement, and in their glow, her features seemed almost luminous. "What are you running from?"
The question hit Demri like a physical blow. He opened his mouth to deny it, to deflect with humor or evasion, but the words would not come. She was looking at him with those dark eyes, full of that impossible faith, and he found that he could not lie to her.
"Everything," he said. "I'm running from everything."
"That's not an answer."
"No. But it's the truth." He forced himself to hold her gaze, even though every instinct screamed at him to look away. "I did something terrible, Aylin. Or I'm accused of doing something terrible—I'm not entirely certain which. And now I'm paying the price. I was... cast out. Exiled. Sent here to suffer for my sins."
She absorbed this in silence, her expression unreadable. "Cast out from where?"
"From everything I knew. Everyone I knew. My entire existence was stripped away in a single moment, and now I'm here, in a world I don't understand, trying to figure out what comes next."
It was the closest he had come to the truth without actually speaking it. He waited for her reaction—confusion, perhaps, or suspicion, or the dawning realization that she had invited a madman into her home.
But Aylin only nodded slowly, as if his words confirmed something she had already suspected. "I thought it was something like that."
"You did?"
"The way you talk. The way you look at things—like everything is new and strange and slightly terrifying. The way you seem surprised whenever someone shows you basic kindness." She reached out and touched his arm, the same casual contact from before, but now freighted with new meaning. "I don't know what you did, or where you came from, or why you ended up lying in the middle of that road. But I know who you are now. And that person—the one who helped James, the one who gave that man at the social services office Maria's card, the one who stands in the rain and thinks about poetry—that person is good."
Demri felt something crack inside him. A wall he had not known he was maintaining. "You can't know that."
"I have faith," Aylin said simply. "And my faith is rarely wrong."
They stood there in the gathering darkness, the streetlights humming overhead and the last remnants of rain dripping from awnings and fire escapes. Demri wanted to tell her everything—the fall, the curse, the hunger that still gnawed at him when she was not near. He wanted to warn her that her faith might be misplaced, that the goodness she saw in him was borrowed, not innate.
But he could not. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
"Thank you," he said instead. "For believing in me."
"Everyone deserves someone who believes in them." She squeezed his arm once, then released it. "Now come on. I'm starving, and there's leftover pizza with our names on it."
---
That night, long after Aylin had gone to bed, Demri sat in the living room with the lights off, watching the shadows move across the walls. The city outside hummed with its endless activity—cars passing, voices rising and falling, the distant wail of a siren cutting through the night.
*She's in love with you*, the curse observed. *Or falling, at least. You could use that.*
"I won't."
*You will. Perhaps not today, perhaps not tomorrow. But eventually, the hunger will overwhelm your noble resistance. And when it does, she will be the first to fall.*
"Then I will fight it. Every day. Every hour. For as long as it takes."
*A touching declaration. But the fall always wins in the end. That is the nature of gravity.*
Demri closed his eyes and thought about Aylin's faith—not the abstract concept, but the living reality of it. The way she believed in goodness despite everything she had seen. The way she chose to add light to a dark world, even when it seemed pointless.
If she could maintain that faith, he thought, perhaps he could too. Perhaps faith was contagious—not a finite resource to be hoarded, but a flame that spread from soul to soul, growing brighter with each new believer.
Perhaps that was how he would break the curse. Not by corrupting the pure ones, but by becoming one of them.
*Impossible*, the curse declared. *You are what you are.*
But for the first time since his fall, Demri was not so sure.
---