I wasn’t ready for the silence.
A week later, Eli picked me up and for the first time in days, I felt something other than grief.
We drove through long, open stretches of farmland, the sky endless above us. Finally, we pulled up to a small white hangar, nestled between two green fields.
Inside, beneath the soft hum of fluorescent lights, stood a yellow plane with “Hope Air” painted across the side.
“It’s a nonprofit I started,” Eli explained, motioning toward the plane. “We fly kids from rural towns to hospitals, free of charge.
Most of their families can’t afford the travel. We make sure they don’t miss their treatment or procedures.”
I took a step closer, drawn to the bright yellow paint and the way the sun lit up the lettering like something alive.
“I wanted to build something that made a difference,” Eli continued. “Something that mattered to someone other than me.”
The hangar was quiet, the kind of quiet that hums with meaning.
I couldn’t take my eyes off the plane. It looked like joy. Like purpose.
Like a beginning I hadn’t known I needed.
“You once told me that I was meant to fix things,” Eli said behind me, softer now. “It turns out that flying was how I learned to do that.”
I turned toward him just as he pulled a small envelope from his bag and held it out.
“I’ve been carrying this a long time. I didn’t know when I’d see you again, or if I ever would.
But I kept it.”
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