**Homecoming**
Edward fastened his seatbelt and absently adjusted the seatback. He flew oftentoo often, if he was honest. Once a month, sometimes more: conferences, meetings, short business trips that left his head spinning worse than cheap whiskey. This time had been especially routine: two days of negotiations, signatures, dinner with partnersthen straight back to London.
Only one thing was different: the destination. The plane wasnt heading to Germany or Manchester, but to a small town in the Midlands where hed been born and which hed fled twenty years ago. Hed been back just twice sinceonce for his fathers funeral, then again for his mothers. Both times, hed been desperate to return to the noise of London traffic, his projects, the life where there was no time to think.
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Last night, hed sat in a bar with colleagues, arguing over some presentation. Someone got drunk and started strumming *Wonderwall* on the guitar. Funny how that tune had stuck in his head, humming now beneath the drone of the engines. He almost smiled.
“Would you like juice or water, sir?” The stewardess bent toward him, her smile rehearsed.
“Water, please.”
She handed him a plastic cup. He nodded. The water was warm, as if left in the sun. But he was thirsty.
The man beside him muttered something, flipping through a magazine.
“Prices are mad, eh?” he said, glancing up.
“They always are,” Edward replied. “Theyre selling watches here that cost more than a flat.”
Both chuckled, and for a moment, it felt almost homely.
The plane flew smoothly, barely swaying. A baby cried somewhere ahead, but its mother hushed it quickly. Someone clicked the overhead light on and off, chasing a beam. A girl across the aisle giggled at her phone, the screen casting a white glow that made her look younger than she was.
Edward turned to the window. He expected to see at least the pale glow of a village below, a motorways ribbon of light, a star flickering. But outside was only darknessthick, matte, like black film pressed against the glass.
“Dark out there, isnt it?” His neighbor peered over his shoulder. “Pitch black.”
Edward shrugged. “Well its night.”
But something prickled in his chest. Nights breathe. This was nothing. Just void.
He checked his phone. No signal. Of coursehe always forgot mid-flight. Still, the habit remained: reaching for the screen, hoping for a text from his son. *Send me a bloody emoji at least*, he thought, locking it with a wry smile.
“Youve got no signal either?” the neighbor asked.
“None,” Edward said. “Not up here.”
The man nodded and went back to his magazine, thumbing glossy pages as if he could feel the fabric of the coats advertised.
The plane dipped slightlyjust turbulence, Edward told himself. But the water in his cup trembled, ripples too precise, like invisible fingers drumming the surface.
From the next row: “You sure theyll meet us?” a woman asked.
“Of course, I rang them. They said theyd wait right by arrivals,” another replied.
The word *wait* stuck in his skull. Edward pressed his forehead to the window. Still nothing. No glimmer, no light. Just black fabric stretched tight around the plane.
He thought of his mother. The one buried in the old churchyard a decade ago. He remembered standing at her grave in his black coat, the strangeness of staring at dirt while her laughter still echoed in his memory. Now, against the window, he almost heard it*Eddie*and flinched like hed been shocked.
“You alright?” the neighbor asked.
Edward blinked. “Just remembered something.”
“Right,” the man said. “Well, dont think about the turbulence.”
He tried reading, but the words slipped away. Sentences blurred; letters bled. He caught himself staring not at the page but at the dark glass. Blackness. Normal, surely. What else was there to see?
His neighbor turned a page and huffed. “Six grand for a watch. For that money, you could buy a Mini.”
Edward forced a polite chuckle.
Across the aisle, a woman murmured, “She said, *Wait for us by lunch.*”
Another voice, higher: “*Mine* said the same*Wait for us by lunch.*”
Coincidence, of course. But the word *wait* sent a chill through him, like a door left open to a draft. He stared at the window.
The black glass reflected his facepale, tired. Not a cloud, not a light below. Just darkness so thick it felt like reaching into it would swallow his hand whole.
“Dark, isnt it?” his neighbor said again. “Pitch black.”
“Night,” Edward echoed. “Same as always.”
But inside, the truth whispered: *Night lives. This doesnt.*
The captains voice crackled overhead. “Ladies and gentlemen, were preparing our descent. This is our only option to locate the ground and attempt a landing. Please remain seated with belts fastened.”
Silence followed. No rustling, no coughs.
The girl in the rabbit jumper shrieked, “What dyou mean *locate the ground*?”
Edwards neighbor threw up his hands. “Theyve no idea where we are.”
The plane lurched. Water sloshed from cups. Someone screamed. The laughing man in the back was now wheezing, his giggles indistinguishable from sobs.
Edward watched, detached. Masks had fallen. The bloke whod joked about watches now breathed like hed run a mile. The suited mans voice cracked as he argued with the crew. The girl hid her face, muttering *no, no, no*
A child wailed. Its mother rocked it fiercely, as if her arms alone could shield it. No one told her to hush itthe sound was relief, proof the world still existed.
Edwards calm was eerie. He saw himself in them: the neighbor, like his cousin hearing *cancer*; the suit, like his boss covering fear with rage; the laughing man, like himself at twenty, hiding terror behind jokes.
*Were all the same*, he thought. *Just too scared to look.*
Thenimpact. The plane jolted, wheels screeching. Theyd landed. Or something had.
The cabin emptied silently. No applause, no phones. Just people shuffling out, shadows melting into the terminals sterile light.
Edward walked. His suitcase wheels clicked against the tiles, the echo lagging like a second set of footsteps. The arrivals hall stretched vast and empty. Departure boards flickered with familiar, foreign letters. Rows of vacant chairs.
Then he saw them. His fatherstraight-backed, younger than he should be. Tweed coat, collar up, just how he liked. His motherno grey, her scarf slipping. Smiling like theyd truly waited.
Edward stopped. Words had run out. Only air remained. He stepped forward.
His mother spoke softly, like when hed come home from school:
“Just in time for lunch, love.”
