The angels had been standing guard forever, or so I thought before I knew what a sculptor was. As far as I was concerned, they were not algae-encrusted pieces of hewn stone, but magical protectors, making sure the dead rested well, and the living did not get hurt in dreams. I do not know where that idea came from.
And yet, looking at the shards, I had another idea out of the blue. It woke up. It left the broken pieces, like an eggshell, and flew home.
By the time vandals smashed one of the pair, I knew better.