9:13 a.m. Reginald Pritchard arrived. His briefcase felt heavy, carrying secrets that hummed. Gate Seven waited. Quiet. Charged. Watching.
“Gate Seven,” he muttered, adjusting his bowler. “Paris? A château? Or somewhere inconveniently clandestine?”
The intercom crackled. Smooth. Mischievous. “Flight 42… mind yourselves. Curiosity is permitted. Consequences may apply.”
A shiver ran down his spine. Ordinary departures were dull. Not this one. Something waited—beyond the mundane, teasing imagination.
Seats faced each other. Tiny umbrellas hovered. Flight attendants juggled pastries, deliberate, suggestive. The captain glanced at clouds, as if expecting them to reply.
The sky stretched, infinite. Passengers’ eyes glimmered with curiosity and forbidden thrill. Somewhere, a piano struck a sharp note: a story unfinished, a secret waiting.
A whisper lingered. Felt, not heard: Few notice… fewer understand.
Reginald shivered. Mystery. Mischief. An invitation unspoken, hanging in the air.
Landing. The spell lingered. Passengers departed. Some puzzled. Some smiling slyly. Some aware they had glimpsed the rare.
Reginald adjusted his bowler. The cabin was empty. Pastry scent remained. Sky held its breath.
Cockpit door clicked. Softly.
A knock.
Something brushed him. A moment only.
Life would never be known again, not even by him.