The photo provided by Rich Voza
The sun dipped towards the horizon, painting streaks of colors across the plane. Would he come?
Million dollar question. If he came, that meant one thing; if he didn’t, another. Part of me hoped it was the latter. Never seeing him again silenced my part as if it had never begun.
If he came, safety was found in yet another way.
How had I gotten myself into this mess?
I looked up the stairs. The pilot wanted to go home, but I shook my head. Felt him first, turning to glimpse his darkness silhouetted against the sun.
The sun vanished and so did he.