Airports have a rhythm that almost feels like a heartbeat—constant, restless, and full of stories that cross paths without ever touching. That afternoon, Terminal B was buzzing with its usual chaos: rolling suitcases, delayed-flight groans, boarding announcements, and the sharp scent of burnt airport coffee.
My own flight had been delayed for hours. I wasn’t frustrated—just tired in a way that burrowed under the skin. That kind of heavy tiredness that makes everything blur at the edges.
Maybe that’s why I noticed him.
A little boy, no older than six, weaving slowly through the crowd. His backpack hung off one shoulder, his hair a messy halo, and his steps were cautious, almost careful. Kids usually move through airports with excitement or loud curiosity. Not him. Every step he took felt hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure he belonged anywhere in the terminal.
At first, I assumed his parents were right behind him. But minute after minute passed, and no one reached for him. No one called his name. No one even looked his way.
He hugged his backpack tightly against his chest, like it was the only familiar thing he had left in the world. And when his eyes lifted and met mine—wide, confused, quietly afraid—something inside me tightened.
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