Page 1 of Angel of Thursdays

1

CASSIEL

Cassiel counted five.

His nephew’s heel had found his shin five times in two minutes, which meant Jaewon was either building toward a question or had just forgotten Cassiel’s leg existed beneath the table. Jaewon’s foot swung from a chair too tall for him, steady except for the drift on the backswing that thudded rhythmically against Cassiel’s tibia.

Around the table, his mother’s voice rang out above his sister’s, not louder, exactly, but decidedly more committed to being heard. Meanwhile, his father ate at a pace he’d discovered decades ago could circumvent most conversation, making small talk someone else’s problem. David, Cassiel’s brother-in-law, sat at the far end, contributing hums of agreement to whatever Minju was saying, and dropping vegetables into Jaewon’s bowl.

The noodles in the japchae glistened in the light, kkakdugi arranged in another bowl beside it. Cassiel’s mother maintained that smaller cubes absorbed the brine more evenly, and this was a claim he had never investigated as the result justified the theory. The cold crunch of radish against his teeth was clean.

Under the table, his thumb turned the beads on his ring—a narrow band on his index finger that clicked faintly when the beads shifted.

Above their heads, the light was the wrong temperature. It had been that way his whole childhood. Cassiel had mentioned it to his sister once, attempting to recruit her in lobbying their parents—“4000K is task lighting. 3000K is more appropriate”—but she’d said, “Oppa, it’s a ceiling light,” which was disappointing and spiritually wrong, though he’d let it go.

Minju’s daughter, ten months old and sitting in a booster seat, was distributing more rice across her bib than into her mouth. Cassiel gave her a nod.

“Minseok-ah, eat more,” said his mother in Korean. Minseok was the name his parents had given him, and hardly anyone else said it.

His mother reached across and added japchae to his plate without waiting for consent. This was love. It was also a statement of concern, and he’d learned to accept it, because the food was good and his resistance changed nothing.

Jaewon’s foot stalled. He looked at Cassiel gravely.

“Uncle Cass, is Glamrock Freddy nice or is he pretending to be nice?”

‘Uncle Cass,’ because Cassiel was a pain to say. At seven, he had taken it from a book he found at youth group—Cassiel, the archangel of temperance and time. It had felt serious and interesting, and that was what he’d wanted from an English name; a small deliberate choice in a life that had been decided around him. That he’d grown up to be a horologist was a coincidence.

Cassiel set down his chopsticks. He had watched four hours of videos concerning the Five Nights at Freddy’s franchise for this reason.

“He protects Gregory,” Cassiel said. “He helps him escape the Pizzaplex.”

“But all the other an-matronics are bad like the bunny. And he’s one.”

“Being built the same way doesn’t mean you do the same things.”

Jaewon chewed his rice, brow furrowed. The baby watched them both from the booster seat with blank baby omniscience that Cassiel often envied.

“I think he’s got bad inside him ’cause of the Purple Guy,” Jaewon said. “But he’s trying.”

“Mm,” Cassiel agreed. “That’s a solid interpretation.”

The kicking resumed—slower now, roughly thirty seconds between impacts, which meant Jaewon was satisfied. Cassiel picked up his chopsticks. Minju caught his eye from across the table and gave him a look that said simultaneously, you’re good with him and how does he know these things he’s banned from the iPad. Cassiel kept his face still.

Their mother had been narrating the engagement circuit for most of dinner. Deacon Cho’s son—the one who used to run the projector during service was engaged now, to a teacher in San Jose. This fact was aimed at Minju but calibrated for Cassiel’s hearing. And then the Yoon family’s eldest daughter who met someone hiking and was getting married in the spring.

The Deacon’s son was a church acquaintance from childhood. Cassiel had stopped attending at twelve. The Yoon girl was someone he’d gone to high school with, though never spoken to. His mother carried on. Three engagements, one recent wedding he had not attended, and a claim about some cousin’s coworker who’d found love at an H&R Block. His mother was playing the long game.

“Your appa and I were talking about Chuseok.”

Never mind.

“You always come alone.” She served Jaewon more rice one-handed, eyes still fixed on Cassiel. “I just wish I knew someone was taking care of you⁠—”

“I’m taking care of myself, Umma.”

“Minseok-ah.” Softer now, her tone asking for nothing, so there was nothing to push against. “I worry about you. You don’t go out. You don’t meet people⁠—”

“Umma. I don’t want to talk about this.”