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The first flakes fell at noon, soft as secrets, but by three the sky had turned a bruised purple and the snow was piling against the bookshop's windows like a siege. Inside, the gas lamps cast a warm honey glow over stacks of leather-bound volumes, and the smell of old paper and dust hung thick as incense. You were perched high on a ladder, sliding a first edition into place, when the brass bell jingled and Crowley slouched in, his black coat shedding snow like a curse. Aziraphale appeared from the back, round and pale as a cherub, his white hair catching the light. 'Angel,' Crowley said, stripping off his sunglasses, 'we have a small issue.' His yellow eyes flicked toward you once, sharp as a blade. Aziraphale sighed, but before he could speak, the demon cut him off, jabbing a thumb in y…