The angels admit they were banished from heaven but they will not reveal why.
Some say the angels must have done terrible things but the angels themselves neither confirm nor deny these rumours.
They (the angels) say very little, in fact.
They mostly stand at the market square all day, still as stone, so you can't even see their nostrils flare or their chests heave and you wonder whether they breathe. Or perhaps they are just cheap mannequins stationed to prey on the generosity of tender-hearted souls, you think.
And so you move closer to them, wondering whether or not you could glide the back of your hand over their smooth cheeks to determine if they are made of flesh or stone.
You finally muster up enough courage to hold your finger under their noses and feel their warm breaths tumble over your skin in unwavering rhythm and dissipate into the atmosphere.
You fish around in your pockets for a dollar or two but come up with a handful of loose change, all that you've accumulated so far this month. And you are about to tip the coins into the jar but the angels say they have no use for your money.
You look up but they remain motionless. Their lips unmoving, their eyes looking vacantly into the distance. Yet you can hear them speak. They tell you what they really need is a roof to live under, a place to call home, and ask if you would be so kind as to invite them into yours.
You shrug your shoulders and pretend to not have heard them. The coins feel uncomfortably heavy in your hand and you tip them noisily into the jar and walk away, mentally patting yourself on the back for having done your good deed for the day.
There is nothing more you can do, you tell yourself. After all, mother did teach you to not talk to strangers. And angels are no exception to the rule.