PART 1

I wasn’t the kind of kid who cared about the latest TikTok trends or what happened in the school cafeteria during lunch. While girls my age were worrying about prom dresses or gossip, I was in my bedroom, surrounded by the smell of ozone from my overheating PC tower and the soft hum of cooling fans. My walls weren’t covered in boy band posters; they were plastered with schematics of Boeing 737s, Cessna 172 checklists, and high-altitude navigation charts.

My name is Emily Carter. At twelve years old, I could rattle off the stall speed of a narrow-body aircraft faster than I could tell you the capitals of the fifty states. My tablet didn’t have games on it; it hosted the most advanced commercial flight simulator civilians could buy. I had flown thousands of miles, landed in typhoons, and navigated engine failures over the Atlantic—all without ever leaving my desk chair in Denver, Colorado.

But I had never stepped foot in a real cockpit. Not until the day I had to save 187 lives.

It was a Tuesday morning, crisp and bright, the kind of spring day that makes you feel like nothing could go wrong. My dad, Marcus, and I were at Denver International Airport, boarding Flight 782 to Orlando. But we weren’t going to Disney World. We weren’t going for sunshine and beaches.

We were going to say goodbye.

My dad gripped the handle of his carry-on bag so tight his knuckles were white. Inside, nestled in velvet, was a small, heavy urn. It held the ashes of my mother, Captain Rachel Carter. She had been a decorated pilot in the US Air Force, a woman who looked at the sky and saw a second home. She died a year ago in a training accident. The plan was simple: fly to Cocoa Beach, her favorite spot on earth, and scatter her ashes into the Atlantic.

As we walked down the jet bridge, the smell of jet fuel and recycled air hit me. To most people, it’s a gross, industrial smell. To me, it smelled like Mom. It smelled like adventure.

I dragged my hand along the cool metal of the fuselage as we boarded. I noted the rivet patterns. I checked the condition of the door seal. I couldn’t help it. It was instinct.

“You like planes, huh?”

I looked up. A flight attendant with a kind face and a nametag that read ‘Clare’ was smiling at me. She must have seen me staring longingly at the open cockpit door.

“I love them,” I said, my voice serious.

“Well, maybe the Captain can give you a wave before we push back,” she teased gently.

I grinned, but my eyes were already locked on the sliver of the flight deck I could see. Switches, dials, the glowing green of the FMC (Flight Management Computer). It was beautiful.

We found our seats, 16A and 16B. I took the window, obviously. I needed to see the flaps extend. I needed to watch the ailerons dance. Dad sat next to me, silent, staring at his knees. He hated flying. He hated it even more now that it had taken his wife.

“Good morning, folks. This is Captain Harris speaking.” The voice over the intercom was deep, gravelly, and calm. The voice of a god. “We’ll be taking off shortly. Flight time is looking like three hours. Clear skies, smooth ride.”

I closed my eyes and listened to the rhythm of his speech. Pilots have a specific cadence. It’s designed to keep you calm. I wondered what he looked like. I wondered if he flew with his hands on the yoke or if he was a ‘fingertips’ kind of guy.

The engines roared—a deep, chest-vibrating thrum that I felt in my teeth. We taxied. I counted the runway lights blurring past. V1. Rotate.

The nose lifted. Gravity pushed me back into the seat. The ground fell away, turning cars into ants and cities into circuit boards. We punched through a layer of clouds and leveled out at 30,000 feet. The seatbelt sign pinged off.

Dad reached into his bag and pulled out a photo of Mom. She was standing by her jet, helmet under her arm, smiling that crooked smile I saw in the mirror every morning.

“She’d be proud of you, Em,” he whispered, his voice cracking.

I nodded, looking out the window so he wouldn’t see my eyes water. “I know.”

The flight was boring. Wonderfully, perfectly boring. The beverage cart rattled down the aisle. People opened laptops. A baby cried two rows back. It was routine. It was safe.

Until twenty-three minutes later.

I was watching the front of the plane, just observing the flow of the cabin, when I saw the cockpit door crack open. A flight attendant—not Clare, another one—was passing coffee in. through the gap, I had a direct line of sight to the co-pilot, First Officer Delgado.

He was leaning back in his seat. Strange posture for cruising altitude. He was rubbing his eyes aggressively, like he was trying to push them back into his skull. Then, his head lolled. It didn’t drop like someone falling asleep; it swung loose, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

My stomach dropped.

“Dad,” I whispered.

Then I saw Captain Harris. He was holding his coffee cup. Then he wasn’t. The cup fell, splashing dark liquid over the center console. He jerked once, violently, and then slumped forward over the controls.

“Dad, something’s wrong.”

“What?” Dad looked up from his magazine, dazed. “What do you mean?”

“The pilots,” I hissed, unbuckling my seatbelt. “They stopped moving.”

“Emily, sit down. It’s just turbulence or—”

The cockpit door swung open. Clare stumbled out. She didn’t look like the friendly woman from boarding anymore. Her skin was the color of old paper. Her eyes were wide, terrifyingly white circles of panic. She grabbed the intercom phone, her hands shaking so bad she dropped it twice before bringing it to her lips.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” her voice cracked, echoing through the silent cabin. “We… we are experiencing a medical emergency. Is there… is there anyone on board with flight experience? A pilot? Anyone?”

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Then, the murmurs started. Nervous laughter. Is this a joke?

“Please!” Clare screamed, abandoning the intercom and shouting down the aisle. Tears were streaming down her face now. “Both pilots are unresponsive! We need help immediately!”

Chaos erupted. People stood up. Screams tore through the air. The plane banked slightly to the left—a slow, sickening drift that told me no one was flying the bird.

I looked at my dad. He was frozen, paralyzed by the sudden nightmare.

“I can do it,” I said.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a boast. It was a fact.

Dad blinked at me, time slowing down. “What?”

“I know how to fly this plane, Dad. It’s a Boeing 737-800. I fly this exact model every single day. I know the startup sequence. I know the FMC layout. I know the emergency checklists.”

“No,” he grabbed my arm. “Emily, this isn’t a game! Sit down!”

“It’s not a game!” I yelled back, ripping my arm away. “Look at them! No one else is standing up! We are drifting, Dad! If the autopilot disengages, we fall. I have to go!”

Clare was scanning the rows, desperate, her eyes pleading. “Please! Anyone!”

I stood up in the aisle. I was small for my age. I was wearing converse sneakers and a hoodie that was too big for me. I looked like I should be asking for a juice box, not the controls of a seventy-ton jetliner.

“I can help!” I shouted, my voice cutting through the panic.

The cabin went silent. Hundreds of eyes turned to me. Confusion. Anger. Disbelief.

Clare looked at me, then behind me, looking for an adult. “Sweetheart, where is your father? Where is the pilot?”

“I’m the pilot,” I said, stepping forward. My legs felt like jelly, but my hands—my hands were steady. “I have three years of simulation experience on this airframe. I know the systems. I can communicate with ATC. Let me into the cockpit.”

“You’re a child!” a man in a suit shouted from row 12. “Sit the hell down!”

“Do you know how to fly?” I snapped at him, my voice whipping like a lash. He shut up. I turned back to Clare. “I’m your only option. Let me in.”

The plane dipped again. A steeper bank this time. A tray table crashed to the floor.

Clare looked at the cockpit, then at me. She saw the desperation in my eyes, but she also saw the knowledge. She didn’t have a choice.

“Okay,” she whispered, grabbing my hand. “Come. Now.”

I looked back at my dad one last time. He had tears in his eyes, his hand reaching out, but he didn’t stop me. He nodded. A slow, terrified nod.

I ran.

Entering the cockpit was like stepping into a tomb. The air was hot and smelled of burnt coffee and fear. Captain Harris was slumped over the yoke, his weight pushing the nose down. That was why we were dipping.

“Get him off the controls!” I yelled.

Clare and I grabbed the Captain. He was heavy, dead weight. We struggled, grunting, dragging him out of the seat and pulling him into the jump seat behind. We did the same for First Officer Delgado. Their faces were grey, their breathing shallow and rattling. Hypoxia? Poisoning? I didn’t know. I didn’t care. Not yet.

I looked at the empty Captain’s seat. It looked enormous. The leather was worn. The sheer amount of buttons and screens was overwhelming in real life—brighter, sharper, more terrifying than on my screen at home.

I scrambled into the seat. I wasn’t tall enough. My feet dangled inches above the rudder pedals.

Crap.

I found the seat adjustment lever and pumped it frantically, rising until I could see over the glare shield. I stretched my legs. My toes just barely grazed the pedals. It would have to do.

My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Don’t freeze. Do not freeze.

I scanned the instruments.
Altimeter: 29,000 feet and dropping.
Airspeed: 460 knots.
Heading: Drifting West.
Autopilot: Engaged but fighting the trim.

I grabbed the headset from the Captain’s unconscious head and shoved it over my ears. It was huge, sliding down my forehead. I keyed the mic switch on the yoke.

“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday,” my voice shook, sounding incredibly young in the headset. “This is Flight 782. Both pilots are unconscious. I repeat, pilots are incapacitated. We are flying blindly. Request immediate assistance. Over.”

Static.

I waited. One second. Two. Three.

“Flight 782,” a voice crackled back. Jacksonville Center. “Say again? Who is speaking? What is the status of the Captain?”

I took a deep breath. I looked at the picture of my mom I had shoved into my pocket before boarding. I pulled it out and taped it to the yoke with a piece of gum wrapper I found in the console.

“This is Emily Carter,” I said, forcing my voice to stop shaking. “I am twelve years old. The Captain is out cold. The First Officer is out cold. I’m flying the plane.”

Silence. Long, heavy silence.

“Did you say… twelve?” The controller’s voice lost its professional cool for a split second.

“Yes. But I know this aircraft. I need vectors. And I need a playlist of emergency frequencies. And please… stop asking my age and help me fly this thing.”

“Okay, Emily,” the voice came back, firmer this time. “My name is Dana. I’m going to get you down. Do not touch anything unless I tell you. Are you leveled off?”

“I’m trying,” I said, gripping the cold, heavy yoke. “But the plane feels… heavy.”

“We’re going to get you home, kid,” Dana said. “Just breathe.”

I looked out the windshield at the endless blue sky. It was beautiful. And it was trying to kill us.

PART 2

“Okay, Emily,” Dana’s voice came through the headset, clear and startlingly calm amidst the static. “First things first. I need you to confirm your altitude and speed. Don’t look at the horizon, look at your PFD—Primary Flight Display.”

My eyes snapped to the screen in front of me. It was a chaotic mess of numbers and tapes, but my brain filtered it instantly. It was just like the sim, only the consequences were real.

“Altitude is… stabilizing at 29,200 feet,” I recited, my voice trembling slightly less. “Airspeed is 462 knots. Heading is… drifting. We’re at 280 degrees.”

“Copy that. That drift is because you’re banking left. Do you see the Mode Control Panel? Top center of the dash.”

“I see it.”

“Okay. Check the ‘Heading Select’ knob. I want you to turn it to… let’s go with 112. We’re going to turn you around, away from the traffic, towards Augusta. It’s a quieter airspace.”

I reached up. My hand looked tiny hovering over the panel. I twisted the small knob. The little orange bug on the compass display moved.

“Heading set to 112,” I confirmed. Then I pressed the ‘SEL’ button.

The plane groaned. The floor tilted beneath me. It wasn’t the smooth, weightless turn of a video game. I felt the G-force press me into the seat. My stomach did a slow roll. The horizon outside the window tilted, the blue sky swapping places with the white clouds below. It felt terrifyingly powerful. I was moving seventy tons of metal with my fingertips.

“Turn initiated,” I whispered.

“Good job, kid,” Dana said. “Now, listen to me. We don’t know why your pilots are down. We suspect a pressurization leak or maybe a toxic fume event. How are you feeling? Any dizziness? Tingling fingers?”

I wiggled my fingers on the yoke. “I’m… I’m okay. I feel awake. Scared, but awake.”

“Okay. Keep monitoring that. If you feel weird, you put that oxygen mask on immediately. It’s to your left.”

Behind me, I heard a groan. I whipped my head around. Clare was kneeling beside Captain Harris. He was twitching, his eyes fluttering.

“He’s waking up!” Clare shouted over the engine hum.

“Captain?” I yelled.

He lifted his head weakly, looking around with glassy, unfocused eyes. He looked at the ceiling, then at Clare, and finally, his gaze landed on me. A twelve-year-old girl sitting in his seat, wearing his headset.

He blinked, confusion washing over his pale face. “Wha… who…”

“Captain, you passed out,” I said, trying to sound authoritative. “I’m flying the plane.”

He stared at me for a long second, his brain trying to process the impossibility of the sentence. Then, his eyes rolled back, and he slumped against the bulkhead again.

“He’s out again,” Clare said, her voice rising in panic. “Emily, what do I do?”

“Just… just keep them breathing,” I said, turning back to the controls. “I can’t help them right now. I have to fly.”

“Emily,” Dana’s voice cut in. “Focus on me. Ignore the cockpit. Look at your fuel panel. Upper overhead panel.”

I looked up. My heart skipped a beat. A yellow light was blinking.

“Fuel imbalance,” I read out. “The left tank is draining faster than the right.”

“Dammit,” Dana muttered, probably thinking the mic was off. “Okay, that might be a leak or a pump failure. We need to balance that out or the plane is going to become unflyable when you slow down. Can you reach the crossfeed valve?”

I stretched. I really stretched. I had to unbuckle my harness to reach the overhead switch. “Got it. Crossfeed open.”

“Good. Now turn off the left fuel pumps. Let the engines drink from the right tank for a bit.”

I flipped the switches. Click. Click.

“Done.”

“You’ve got the instincts of a pro, Emily,” Dana said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “Most students forget the crossfeed.”

“I’m not a student,” I muttered, gripping the yoke. “I’m a gamer.”

Suddenly, the cockpit lights flickered. The screens went black for a heartbeat—a terrifying, endless second of darkness—before surging back to life.

“Dana!” I yelped. “We just lost power for a second! Everything blinked!”

“Voltage drop,” Dana said quickly. “Okay, stay calm. It’s likely the main generator struggling if the engine RPM is fluctuating. Find the switch marked ‘APU GEN’. It’s right in the middle of the overhead.”

“I know where it is,” I said. I remembered the startup sequence from the sim. Battery, Standby Power, APU Start… I flipped the switch. The lights steadied. The hum of the electronics deepened, becoming consistent again.

“Stabilized,” I breathed out.

“Okay. You’re doing great. Now, I need you to start a descent. We can’t land from 29,000 feet. Dial the altitude window to 24,000. And gently… gently… pull the throttle levers back about an inch.”

I reached for the throttle quadrant. The levers were cold metal. I pulled them back. The roar of the engines softened to a purr. The nose of the plane dipped.

That sensation—the falling stomach feeling—was ten times worse in real life. I gripped the armrests.

Don’t panic. It’s just physics.

“Descending,” I said.

That’s when I heard it. A sound coming through the cockpit door. It was muffled, rhythmic.

Clapping.

I looked back at Clare. She was standing by the door, listening.

“They know,” she whispered. “I didn’t tell them everything… just that we have a situation and we’re handling it.”

“They’re clapping?” I asked, bewildered.

“They’re clapping for you, Emily,” she said softly. “They think the ‘situation’ is under control. They don’t know a seventh-grader is the only thing keeping them from the ground.”

I turned back to the window. The applause didn’t make me feel brave. It made me feel heavy. Every single person back there—the mothers, the businessmen, the crying baby—they were all clapping for a lie. They thought a hero was flying the plane. They just had me.

“Emily,” Dana’s voice was serious now. “We need to talk about the landing.”

My throat went dry. Landing was the hard part. Taking off is optional; landing is mandatory. In the sim, if I crashed, I just hit ‘Restart Scenario’. I’d crashed plenty of times. I’d run off runways, snapped landing gears, stalled on approach.

There is no restart button at 30,000 feet.

“I’m listening,” I squeaked.

“We’re diverting you to Augusta Regional. It’s got a long runway, less traffic. But here’s the thing… the weather is turning. There’s a storm front moving in faster than we thought. You’re going to have crosswinds.”

“How bad?”

“Bad enough that the autopilot might not be able to handle the final approach. You might have to hand-fly it in.”

My hands turned to ice. Hand-flying a 737 in a storm?

“I… I’ve never done a crosswind landing in real life,” I whispered. “Only in the game. And I crash half the time.”

“Well,” Dana said, her voice hard as steel. “Today is the day you don’t crash. You hear me? You don’t have a choice.”

“I can’t…”

“Yes, you can! Your mom was Rachel Carter, wasn’t she?”

I froze. “How did you know?”

“I looked up the manifest. I knew your mom. I controlled traffic for her squadron a few times out of Nellis. She was the best stick-and-rudder pilot I ever saw. You have her blood. You have her guts. Now stop doubting yourself and fly the damn plane.”

Tears pricked my eyes. Not from sadness, but from a sudden surge of adrenaline.

“Okay,” I said. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

“That’s the spirit. Now, check your—”

A loud BEEP-BEEP-BEEP cut her off. A red light flashed on the dashboard.

AUTOPILOT DISENGAGE.

The yoke jerked in my hands, coming alive. The plane banked sharply to the right, dipping a wing toward the earth.

“Dana!” I screamed. “Autopilot is off! The plane is turning!”

“Grab it!” Dana shouted. “Grab the yoke! Level the wings! Use the rudder!”

I threw my hands onto the control wheel. It fought me. It was heavy, like wrestling a bear. The wind outside buffeted the fuselage, tossing us like a toy.

“I can’t hold it!”

“Yes, you can! Push the left pedal! Turn the wheel left! Fight it, Emily!”

I gritted my teeth. I slammed my foot onto the left rudder pedal and cranked the yoke. My muscles burned. The horizon tilted back—slowly, agonizingly—until the blue and white were level again.

I was panting. My heart was beating so fast it hurt.

“I… I got it,” I gasped. “I’m leveled.”

“You’re flying manually now, Emily,” Dana said, her voice breathless. “No more computer. It’s just you and the wind.”

I looked out at the clouds. They were getting darker. Grey wisps were whipping past the windshield. We were entering the storm.

PART 3

“Just you and the wind.”

Dana’s words echoed in the small cockpit, louder than the engines, louder than the blood rushing in my ears. The autopilot was gone. The safety net had snapped. I was manually flying a Boeing 737-800 through a developing storm, my hands white-knuckled on a yoke that felt like it was made of lead.

“Emily,” Dana’s voice was a lifeline. “Do not overcorrect. Small movements. Think of the yoke as an extension of your arms. If you fight the plane, it will fight back. Guide it.”

I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. I eased my grip just a fraction. The plane bucked as we hit a pocket of turbulence. My stomach dropped, but I remembered my simulator training. Ride the bumps. Don’t chase the needles.

“I’m steady,” I said, though my voice sounded tiny. “Altitude 18,000. Speed 280.”

“Good. You’re descending fast. We need to slow you down. Bring the throttles back a little more. We need to get dirty.”

“Dirty?”

“Flaps and gear. We need drag. But not yet. You’re too fast for gear. Flaps 1.”

I reached for the flap lever. I had to take one hand off the yoke to do it. The plane immediately dipped left. I grabbed the yoke back, wrestling it level.

“Flaps 1 set,” I grunted. The leading edge slats extended. I felt the vibration through the floorboards.

“Okay, you’re coming up on Augusta. I need you to look for the runway. It’s going to be at your 11 o’clock. Runway 17.”

I peered through the rain-streaked windshield. Below us, the world was a grey blur of storm clouds and wet earth. Then, I saw it. A faint string of pearls glowing in the gloom. The approach lights.

“I see it!” I shouted. “I have the runway!”

“Copy visual,” Dana said. “You are cleared to land, Flight 782. Emergency crews are rolling. The strip is all yours.”

This was it. The final boss level. But this time, I couldn’t respawn.

“Gear down,” I whispered. I pulled the heavy lever. THUNK-WHIRRR-CLUNK. Three green lights illuminated. “Gear is down and locked.”

“Flaps 30,” Dana commanded.

I set the flaps. The plane ballooned up with the extra lift. I pushed the nose down, fighting the new aerodynamics. The speed bled off. 160 knots. 150 knots.

“Watch your speed, Emily! Don’t let it drop below 140 or you’ll stall!”

“I know, I know!” I snapped. The stall warning shaker was a terrifying sound I never wanted to hear in real life.

We were at 2,000 feet now. The ground was rushing up to meet us. Trees became individual shapes. Cars on the highway looked real. The crosswind hit us then—a brutal, invisible fist slamming into the side of the fuselage.

The plane yawed violently to the right. The runway slid away to the left.

“Wind shear!” I screamed.

“Rudder!” Dana yelled. “Left rudder! Dip the left wing into the wind! Crabbing technique, Emily! Do it now!”

I slammed my left foot down on the pedal and twisted the yoke left. The plane skidded through the air, flying sideways like a crab scuttling across the sand. It felt wrong. It felt like I was crashing. But the nose swung back toward the runway centerline.

“Hold it there!” Dana urged. “Keep that crab angle until the last second!”

1,000 feet.

The cockpit door burst open. It was Dad. He had broken free from the flight attendants. He stumbled in, his face pale as a sheet. He saw me—his little girl—wrestling with a machine that weighed more than a house.

“Emily…” he breathed.

“Don’t talk to me!” I yelled, staring fixedly at the runway. “Sit down and strap in!”

He didn’t argue. He collapsed into the jump seat next to the unconscious Captain and buckled the harness with shaking hands.

500 feet. The GPWS (Ground Proximity Warning System) blared its robotic warning: FIVE HUNDRED.

“You’re too high,” Dana said, her voice tight. “Cut the power. Idle! Now!”

I yanked the throttles all the way back. The engines spooled down. The plane dropped like a stone.

SINK RATE. PULL UP.

“Ignore the warning!” Dana said. “Flare! Now, Emily! Pull back!”

The runway was right there—black asphalt, wet with rain, rushing at us at 150 miles per hour. I pulled back on the yoke with everything I had. My arms screamed.

The nose lifted. The main wheels reached for the ground.

CRUNCH.

We hit hard. The plane bounced—once, twice. My teeth clattered together. The yoke shook violently in my hands.

“Nose down! Brakes!” Dana was screaming.

I pushed the yoke forward to plant the nose gear. I stomped on the tops of the rudder pedals, engaging the brakes. I grabbed the reverse thrust levers and ripped them back.

The engines roared in protest, blasting air forward to stop us. The seatbelts cut into my chest as we decelerated. The world outside was a blur of wet runway lights. The plane shuddered, groaned, and skidded slightly to the left before the anti-skid system kicked in.

Slower. Slower.

60 knots. 40 knots.

We came to a halt.

Silence.

Absolute, ringing silence. The only sound was the hum of the avionics cooling fans and the frantic beating of my own heart.

“Emily?” Dana’s voice was a whisper.

I slumped back in the enormous seat, my hands trembling uncontrollably. I looked out the window. Fire trucks were racing toward us, lights flashing red and blue against the grey sky.

“I’m here,” I squeaked. “We’re down.”

“You did it,” Dana choked out. “Oh my god, kid. You did it.”

The cockpit erupted. Dad unbuckled and threw his arms around me from behind the seat, sobbing into my hair. “You did it! You saved us! You saved us!”

Clare rushed in, tears streaming down her face. Even Captain Harris was stirring, groaning as the adrenaline of the landing woke him.

I didn’t cry. Not yet. I just sat there, staring at the ‘Parking Brake Set’ light. I felt… old. I felt like I had lived a lifetime in twenty minutes.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the photo of Mom. Her smile seemed wider now.

“Nice landing, Captain,” I whispered to the photo.

The aftermath was a blur. Paramedics swarmed the cockpit. They carried the pilots out on stretchers—both survived, later diagnosed with a rare toxic fume leak in the air conditioning system that only affected the flight deck.

I walked down the airstairs into the rain. The passengers were deplaning on the tarmac. When they saw me—a kid in a hoodie, hair messy, looking like I’d just woken up from a nap—they stopped.

Someone started clapping. Then someone else. Soon, the entire tarmac was roaring with applause and cheers. People were crying, hugging each other, pointing at me. A woman rushed forward and hugged me so hard I thought she’d break my ribs.

“Thank you,” she sobbed. “My baby is alive because of you.”

I just nodded, numb.

Dad wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. “Let’s go home, Em.”

Six months later.

We were back in Florida. Not for a funeral this time, but for a celebration. We stood on the beach in Cocoa, the wind whipping my hair across my face. The ocean was the same color blue as the sky at 30,000 feet.

I held the urn. It felt lighter now.

“She would have been the one flying that plane if she were here,” Dad said softly.

“She was,” I said, looking at the horizon. “She was right there with me.”

I opened the urn and let the grey ash drift into the wind. It swirled, danced, and then disappeared into the vast Atlantic.

I wasn’t the same girl who had boarded Flight 782. I didn’t spend my days playing video games anymore. I spent them at the local airfield, logging hours in a real Cessna 172. I had a logbook now. A real one.

I looked up at a plane tracing a white contrail high above us.

“Dad?”

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“I think I’m going to be a pilot.”

He smiled, squeezing my shoulder. “I think you already are.”

I watched the plane until it disappeared. The sky wasn’t just a place anymore. It was a promise. And I knew, with absolute certainty, that I belonged up there.

END.