When the child started going to school, it was some time after the complete destruction of the henhouse by the sun and rain. The angel now wanders here and there, like a lost parrot. They sweep him out of the bedroom, but a moment later they see him in the kitchen, and at the same time he seems to appear in so many different places that they wonder how many more versions of himself there are - is he making himself in every corner of the house? And Elisenda, devastated and frustrated, began to scream at the top of her lungs, "What a horrible thing it is to live in a hell where angels are made of angels!" The angel can no longer eat, his ancient eyes are so cloudy that he always bumps into things. All he has left now is the fine web of his last feathers. Pelaio threw a blanket over him, and, out of pity, let him lie down under a canopy. And only then did they discover that he had a fever every night, and that he was babbling in a delirious gibberish in the slang of an old Norwegian. This was one of the few times they had been terrified, for they had supposed that he was dying, and their wise neighbor had not been able to tell them what to do with a dead angel.
Yet not only did he survive his worst winter, but as the first sunny days arrived, he seemed to gradually recover. He lay still for a few days in the farthest corner of the yard.
where no one could see him; and at the beginning of December a few large, feathery feathers grew on his wings, like the feathers of a cockatoo, which seemed to him another unfortunate sign of his old age. But he must have known the real reason for these changes, for he was very careful not to let anyone see them, he was very careful not to let anyone hear him humming the song of the vermilion bird under the twinkling stars. One morning, while Elisenda was cutting a bunch of onions, it suddenly seemed to him that a breeze from the distant sea had suddenly entered the kitchen. Then she went to the window and saw that the angel was trying to spread his wings for the first time. But so clumsy and unaccustomed was his attempt that his nails were cutting deep grooves in the vegetable garden. And he might have even blown away the raft with his wild, flailing wings, especially since he was constantly flailing, unable to hold on to the wind. Still, he managed to rise a little, shakily. Elisenda breathed a sigh of relief—a relief for herself and a relief for the angel—when she saw that the angel was now flying over the last houses, somehow holding himself in flight, with the dangerous flapping of wings of a demented, decrepit vulture. Even after the onions were cut, Elisenda kept watching him. She kept watching him when it was no longer possible to see him—because he was no longer a nuisance or a nuisance in her life, but a mere speck in the ocean's eddies.