She lived on the mountaintop for the view. It was a cozy house made of fog, with steamy windows and snow on the roof. Rain was always coming down the chimney and putting out the fire, but she said she’d never want to live anywhere else. “This is where angels live,” she’d say, “and it is an honor to live among them.” It was no Heaven, but for her, it was Paradise.

She collected angel wings for her dreams of flying. It was the kind of collection that was kept in a neat line on the mantle, with the newest pair kept on her back in the hopes that these ones would carry her to freedom. You would always comment on her wings, on how soft they were or how brightly they shone, but you never seemed to notice that you were missing yours. “I just need one more wing,” she’d say, “and then I can finally fly away.” I neglected to tell her that with just one more, she’d only be flying in circles around Paradise.

She befriended a wet cat, for a little companionship in her rainy cottage. It was a big fluffy stray, with a gray and brown and black coat made for the mountain chill but not the mountain water. Little rivers and springs were always catching it off-guard and pulling it in, but she heard the soaked cat’s crying one day and decided to break the cycle. “You have exactly one tabby wing on your tabby back,” she observed when they met, “and that is exactly how many wings I need.” They were best friends after that, even though she grounded him in Paradise.

She moved to Seattle for the rain. It was, oh, a couple gajillion years ago now. She always thought she’d packed everything, but I stole the wet cat’s tabby wing and gave it back after she left. “Your wings are in Seattle now,” I said to you, “and the longer they wait for you there, the more they will hate flying you inland.” I promised we’d all still be here on the mountaintop when you came back, me and the wet cat and the rain she loved and left, and we’d be flying in the same circles she used to pace as she planned her escape from Paradise.

She lived on a mountaintop just outside the city, for nostalgia. It was more like a big hill on the edge of the Cascades, really, frosted with rainforest instead of snow. Seattle was always so much lonelier without you, it seemed, but when she was sad she just reminded herself how many angel wings she’d collected and then she felt better. “This is how many times I have won,” she’d say, “and now I will set out for the city streets and win this many times again.” In her wake, a kazillion wingless angels aimlessly wandered Paradise.

You moved to the mountaintop for the cozy fog house. She had never been the same since losing your wings, but you couldn’t have been happier with your wings, with me, with the wet cat, with the rain, without her.