End of the runway and ghosts

Liam’s health declined fast. Decades of grief, war, alcohol, and isolation wore down the man who once soared above the clouds.

One evening, he wrote a letter addressed “To Whom It May Hurt”:

“I buried my son, then buried myself with him. Every breath since has been punishment. I chased justice and found vengeance. I tried to fly above it all—but even angels fall.

If there is anything left of me, burn it with the planes. Let the sky remember I once lived.”

He took the last remaining aircraft—a weathered Cessna with a cracked windshield—and fueled it for one final flight.

Esther begged him not to go.

“Please,” she cried, gripping his arm. “You’re not alone.”

But Liam was already gone. His eyes stared through her, past her, into the great beyond.

He took off from the old airstrip at dawn. No plan. No passenger. Just him and the sky.

The aircraft circled once, twice.

Then climbed—higher, higher.

Witnesses said they saw it dip sharply, nose down.

It never pulled up.

The wreckage was found scattered in the hills near Leo’s crash site.

Liam’s body was broken, but peaceful. Beside him, investigators found a photo of Leo and a flight log with only one entry: “Final ascent.”

A small, quiet funeral was held weeks later. Esther attended. So did a few loyal workers. No family came.

Esther placed two paper airplanes in the coffin—one for Liam, one for Leo. She whispered:

“You both deserved more time in the sky.”

As the casket was lowered, the wind picked up, swirling dust through the cemetery. And just for a moment, it felt like wings flapping through grief—two souls soaring together, finally beyond reach of pain.

After the crash, after the casket, after the silence—Liam existed, not lived.

He haunted the hangar like a ghost, drifting between aircraft and workbenches, his movements slow, deliberate, and detached. The once buzzing home of Stones Aviation now sounded like an empty church. Engines didn’t roar. Phones didn’t ring. The only noise was the distant echo of his son’s laughter, etched deep into the walls of his memory.

Some nights he would sit on the floor in front of the flight simulator Leo used to practice on. It still worked—barely. Liam would boot it up, load the same flight path Leo had memorized for weeks, and just watch the screen, fingers hovering over the controls but never touching them.

He didn’t need to fly anymore. The flight was inside him. Or what was left of it.

He kept remembering the last time Leo made him laugh.

It had been a Sunday, just a month before the crash. They were flying to Doret for a charity event, with Leo in the co-pilot seat. The boy had insisted on wearing sunglasses, radioing fake air traffic control instructions in a deep voice.

“Captain Leo Stone requesting permission for a snack run, over.”

Liam had chuckled so hard he nearly veered off course.

That memory haunted him the most. Not because of the laughter, but because he never told Leo he was proud of him that day.

He thought he had time.

THE PAST.

Liam started keeping a journal. Not for himself—but for Leo.

He filled it with memories, regrets, promises.

“Your hands were too small for the flight controls, but you held my heart like a pro.”

“I used to fly for honor. I started flying again for you.”

“You were the only reason I survived the scandal. But I didn’t survive losing you.”

He kept the journal hidden in the cockpit of his oldest plane. It was stained with engine grease, a few pages torn, but every word written with the reverence of scripture.

Esther once found him asleep in the cockpit, the book clutched to his chest.

“Why don’t you write about yourself?” she asked gently.

“I’m already written,” Liam murmured without opening his eyes. “In the cracks.”

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