The next morning, Asiola lingered longer in the quiet stillness of waking. Her dream with Michael and Ramiel was still fresh, vivid like a memory, not just a flicker of sleep. She had tried to research these angels, but the pages of books offered only contradictions. Michael was a warrior, a protector, a judge. Ramiel barely appeared at all. Some descriptions spoke of him as the angel of hope, others of thunder and visions. None of it felt complete. None of it felt like what she had seen.
She wanted answers. But instead of finding them in ink or print, something else began to happen.
That afternoon, while walking through a nearby park, a feather drifted down in front of her. Not white, but gold-tinted. Her breath caught. She looked up, no birds in sight.
Later that week, while waiting in line at a small market, the person in front of her dropped a keychain. It clinked to the ground. She picked it up and handed it back and her fingers brushed against a metal charm shaped like a sword with wings.
And just when she began to question herself, wondering if her mind was trying too hard to find patterns, a stranger passed her by on the street and muttered softly into his phone, "Yeah, I think Michael protected her… there's no other way to explain it."
She stopped walking. Her heart raced. Coincidence? Maybe. But she didn't think so.
The signs were subtle, but undeniable. They weren't answers - not yet - but they stirred something deeper inside her. A reminder. A call.
That night, she returned to her meditation mat. This time, she wasn't just searching for clarity.
Over the following days, Asiola began to pay closer attention to the world around her. What once seemed like coincidence now felt like quiet whispers guiding her.
It started simply with feathers. White ones, small and delicate, resting on benches or caught in grass. Then larger ones, in hues of soft gold or silver-grey, appearing at her feet during walks. She began collecting them, storing them gently in a wooden box near her meditation space. Each one felt like a reminder, of the presence she had felt in dreams, of Michael's golden wings and steady hand.
At a small market stand, she paused in front of a jewelry vendor. Her eyes were drawn to a pendant, angel with a tiny sword, wings wrapped around its hilt. Beneath it, the tag read simply: Protector. Her fingers brushed the metal, and a calm settled in her chest. She bought it without a second thought and wore it close to her heart from then on.
As days passed, synchronicities grew.
A friend mentioned Archangel Michael out of nowhere, without knowing anything about Asiola's dreams. A book on angelic meditations fell from a shelf at the library, opening to a chapter about protection and courage. Street signs, snippets of conversations, even dreams of others she spoke to, they all began to echo the same presence.
Asiola felt something shifting. She started to practice her meditations more regularly, dedicating specific time to connect with Michael. Each time, she began by surrounding herself with the same sphere of light she had learned before, this time consciously inviting the energy of protection and guidance.
At first, nothing changed, only a sense of safety and peace. But gradually, the changes grew.
Her body began to relax more deeply than ever before. A long-held tension in her shoulders eased. Her breathing softened, sleep came easier. When conflict or harsh energy appeared around her, she could hold her calm. It wasn't just willpower, it felt like support.
And then came the moments she couldn't explain.
A sudden inner knowing. A warmth on her back during meditation, like wings gently brushing her skin. Visions flickered behind her closed eyes, of golden light, of swords glowing with fire, of paths cleared ahead of her in radiant clarity.
The answers didn't always come in words. Sometimes it was just a feeling, a nudge to say no, to wait, to trust. But they came. Slowly, gently, like dawn breaking.
She no longer doubted that Michael was with her.
And she wondered, who else might be?
One late afternoon, after a restless night and a wave of exhaustion that settled deep in her bones, Asiola sat down to meditate again. Her body felt heavy, her chest tight, and a dull ache had taken root behind her eyes. She whispered the prayer of light once more, slowly surrounding herself with that familiar sphere of white-golden glow.
But this time, as she settled into the quiet, something shifted.
The space around her filled with a soft green hue, gentle, soothing, almost like the light filtered through leaves on a spring morning. It didn't come from her imagination. She felt it, deeply. The air around her vibrated with a calm warmth, and then… a presence.
She saw him, not with her eyes, but with something deeper. A figure knelt beside her, placing warm, steady hands over her chest and stomach. His touch radiated light, like water flowing over old wounds, dissolving tension, unwinding pain. The green energy moved through her body like a wave , balancing, softening, healing.
Tears welled in her closed eyes. Not from pain, but from the overwhelming peace she hadn't felt in years. Her breath deepened, her skin tingled, and the heavy weight that had wrapped itself around her ribs seemed to lift.
Still in the vision, she turned her attention inward and asked softly in her mind: Michael, who is this?
For the first time in meditation, she heard a clear answer, not in words, but in knowing.
Raphael.
A name she had heard before, but never like this.
When she finally opened her eyes, Asiola felt lighter than she had in days. The ache was gone. Her breath flowed freely. It felt like something inside her had been gently, lovingly repaired.
Now, she understood, Michael was not alone.
There were others who walked beside those who asked. Helpers, healers, protectors. And they came when truly called.
Asiola meditated and meditated — morning, evening, whenever her heart was heavy or her spirit stirred. She had begun to notice how the inner silence was no longer empty, but alive — like a sacred space slowly unfolding.
One day, after a series of emotionally draining encounters with people around her, she found herself sitting in silence again, hands resting gently on her knees, breath steady but heart unsettled. She whispered quietly for help — not out loud, but within her soul.
"Please... I don't know what to do. Help me with those who make my days feel so heavy."
Almost instantly, the familiar shift in perception came. Her body stayed still, but her consciousness moved, and she slipped into a lucid, dreamlike vision.
There, in a soft, glowing space, stood Michael.
Radiant and steady.
He stepped toward her in silence, his presence grounding yet powerful, and in his hands — a sword. Glowing faintly with silvery-blue light, it was unlike any weapon she had seen. Elegant, ancient, and vibrating with energy.
He extended the sword to her.
Asiola reached for it, wrapping her fingers around the hilt with both hands. She looked up at him, bewildered.
"What should I do with this?" she asked.
Michael didn't speak with words. Instead, the answer entered her mind like a clear stream of thought:
"Cut the threads that bind you and them together. With this sword, release what weighs you down."
She hesitated. The blade hummed in her palms like it knew her story.
"But… this is your sword," she whispered.
He smiled, just slightly.
"I have many," came the silent reply.
And then — he was gone.
Left in stillness, Asiola closed her eyes again and held the sword in her mind. She visualized the cords — thin, glowing strands — connecting her to the people, the burdens, the energies that had clung to her. Threads of resentment. Threads of old expectations. Invisible chains of karma and fatigue.
She swung the sword gently around her, one circle at a time. Cutting. Releasing. Freeing.
With every imagined sweep, she felt lighter.
When she finally opened her eyes, something had shifted. The tightness in her chest had softened. Her body felt calmer. Her thoughts clearer. It was as if the invisible weight she had been carrying was simply… gone.
She exhaled deeply, surprised by the strange sense of peace that had taken its place.
For the first time in weeks, she felt truly free.
From that day on, something shifted in Asiola's routine.
What had once been an inner world, silent, sacred, unseen, began spilling gently into her physical life. Her practice was no longer confined to the stillness of her meditation cushion or the quiet of her bedroom.
When the skies were clear and the winds mild, she began going outside. Into fields, to forest edges, or quiet patches of garden where no one would disturb her. She would stand tall, feet grounded on the earth, and close her eyes for a moment.
And then, she would begin.
With breath and intention, she would visualize the sword once gifted to her. Even though it wasn't physically in her hands, she could feel its weight, its balance, the familiar energy humming through her palms. Slowly, she would move her arms in wide arcs, the same movements she had made in her mind, slicing gently through the air around her.
She imagined the glowing threads being cut, those invisible cords that drained her, tied her to past pain, or kept her bound to others' moods and emotions.
Her body moved with grace, not unlike a dancer or a warrior, circling, sweeping, releasing.
To a stranger passing by, it may have looked like a moving meditation, or perhaps a quiet martial art. But to Asiola, it was something deeper. It was spiritual hygiene. It was protection. It was liberation.
And the more she did it, the more grounded she felt. Her body started to respond, her breath deepened, her energy lifted, and even aches and tensions began to dissolve.
What began as a vision had become a practice. And with every repetition, she was no longer just seeking protection, she was stepping into it, embodying it.