The temple had not heard music in a thousand years. At twilight, under a thin crescent moon, the nine golden guardians stood on their pedestals as they always had — mouths frozen mid-hymn, robes of solid light, eyes fixed on the empty courtyard. Then she descended, barefoot on the rose-scattered stone, white wings folding and unfolding with each breath, anatomical and alive, catching the warm glow of the dying sun. She did not need to call them. When she opened her arms, their gilded throats opened with her. She sang not like a mortal, but like a lead called to answer. It was an upbeat, grandeur gospel that rolled off the columns like thunder, orchestral and unstoppable — strings and brass and drums rising behind a voice that could lift stone. The choir did not move. They never left their pedestals, never stepped forward, yet they sang, stationary and powerful, their golden mouths pouring harmony after harmony behind her. Her wings beat in time, her whole body conducting the light, and for those minutes the ancient courtyard was no longer a ruin. It was a live concert of heaven and history, with one angel in white carrying the melody and nine kings of gold carrying her home.