Castiel—born of the Hebrew phrase that murmurs “shield of God” and shimmering, in the modern ear, with the grace of the television archangel who bears the same wings—unfurls across the tongue like the crescent arc of a katana catching moonlight above Kyoto’s silent rooftops. His consonants strike crisp as winter bamboo, his vowels linger soft as morning mist over a koi-laden pond, and together they sketch a haiku of quiet guardianship: compact, brilliant, resolute. Carried on such connotations of celestial protection, the name has glided through American birth records for over a decade, ascending steadily—much like a paper lantern released at Tanabata, unsure at first, then suddenly sure—until it now hovers in the mid-600s, a visible yet still exclusive glow amid the night sky of newborn choices. To choose Castiel, therefore, is to drape a son in a mantle both ancient and current, delicate and enduring, as if gifting him a feather from an unseen angel’s wing and a samurai’s calm resolve in the same breath.