For as long as I can remember, the sky was my compass.
I grew up in an orphanage with almost nothing that belonged to me, except one treasure: a faded photograph of a little boy grinning in a cockpit, a pilot standing behind him with a dark birthmark stretching across half his face. That boy was me—or at least, I believed the man behind me was my father.
For twenty years, that photo was my guide. During long nights of flight training, when savings vanished mid-semester and instructors doubted me, I’d unfold it and study every detail: the pilot’s steady hand, the curve of my young smile. It told me I belonged in the sky.
At twenty-seven, I finally sat in the left seat of a commercial jet as captain. Gold bars on my shoulders didn’t feel heavy—they felt earned. My co-pilot, Mark, grinned as we taxied.
“Nervous, Captain?”
I touched the pocket where the photograph lived. “A little,” I admitted. “But some dreams are worth it.”
Takeoff was seamless, the blue sky opening before us like a promise. I’d spent years searching for the man in the photo, believing that finding him would complete me. But as we leveled, I began to wonder: did it matter anymore? I was already where I belonged.
Then chaos erupted.
A commotion in first class. A crash. Shouts. Sarah, a flight attendant, appeared at the cockpit door.
“Captain! Passenger choking!”
Mark took the controls. I ran forward.
In first class, a man clawed at his throat, panicked and red-faced. I knelt beside him, issuing sharp instructions. Then I froze.
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