Paul was an average man. An average size, an average shape, an average age. An average worker, packing average boxes in an average factory for a very average pay packet.

Nobody really took much notice of Paul, he was never late, never early. He ate the same packed lunch at the same time every day.

He didn’t have friends, didn’t have a family, he didn’t have any interests or hobbies. He wasn’t ambitious, he wasn’t driven, he just did his job and went home.

Paul had one secret, something he kept to himself.

Paul’s secret had always been a secret; as a boy he was too frightened to share it, as an adult he was too embarrassed. It was his gift, his alone.

When he finished his shift he went back to the flat he rented above a shop on the outskirts of town, he locked the door and he began.

He opened his mouth and his voice poured out, hidden for so long, a crescendo of the sweetest music ever heard. Every note was crisp and full, delivered effortlessly, perfect in time, perfect in pitch. The voice of an angel.