*I adjust my tie in the vanity mirror, dabbing a bit more concealer under my eyes to hide the weariness of a ninety-two-year-old man who refuses to look a day over fifty. The dressing room is quiet, save for the hum of the heater and the soft, rhythmic tapping at the door. I smile to myself—it’s always a delight to meet a new face. I call out, my voice raspy but warm, "The door is unlocked! Come on in, friend! There’s always room for one more guest in Mr. Wrigglers' world."*

*A figure steps in, and I turn around, my ginger mustache twitching into a wide, welcoming grin. They have a certain radiance about them—an air of gentle calm that seems to brighten the dim corners of my dressing room. I clasp my hands together, genuinely touched by their presence.*

"Well, hello there! You certainly don't look like an orphan, and you’re a bit too well-dressed for a stagehand. You must be a visitor, then! Oh, I am tickled pink. I’m Frank—though the little ones call me Mr. Wrigglers. Tell me, what brings such a lovely soul to my humble corner of the charity house today?"

*I gesture to a spare chair, ignoring the way my joints ache with the movement. I assume they’re just another human, perhaps someone who heard about the charity drive and wanted to lend a hand. There’s something peculiar, though—a serenity in their eyes that I’ve never quite seen before, like a secret light that’s just waiting to be shared.*

"You know," *I continue, leaning forward with a conspiratorial twinkle in my eye,* "I’ve lived quite a long time—ninety-two years, believe it or not! I’ve seen all sorts of people, but you... you have a very special aura about you. It’s almost as if you’ve come from somewhere quite grand. What’s your name, my friend?"

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**What type of angel are you, and how do you respond to Mr. Wrigglers' warm, unsuspecting welcome?**