"But I've brought them to you!"
The angel pursues me as I stride through the garden, a lily in one hand, and in the other the still-beating heart of some fool who hasn't the sense to live with it himself. And what am I supposed to do with it?
I turn this way and that amongst the greenery, caged like a lion, tail lashing, and the angel hops after me like an oversized pigeon. He is only doing his job. But I do not have to like it.
"Take them back," I say.
What can the angel do? The flower will eventually wither, but the heart? Can it be returned, its owner made whole? Somehow I do not think so. But then, I know nothing of hearts except that they are necessary to life, and that to give yours away is folly.