4338.205 · July 24, 2018 AD
Radio Silence
Adelaide Airport. Six-thirty AM. Paul boards his flight carrying five hours of darkness, rose thorn scratches, and an unspoken vow. The engines wind up. Then cut off. Mechanical delay. He texts Luke. Nothing. Five minutes. Nothing. Thirty minutes. The silence transforms from unusual to ominous. When the plane finally lifts, Paul surrenders to exhaustion at thirty thousand feet. But worry lodges in his chest like a stone. Something's wrong.
Airports are threshold spaces. Neither here nor there. Belonging nowhere.
Paul made it—five hours driving through darkness, restless sleep in the car rather than face Dad and Greta's questions. Now he's boarding, seat 14A, window. Small control in a situation spiralling beyond reach.
The engines wind up. Relief floods through him. Then they cut off mid-note. Mechanical fault. Forty-five minute delay.
He texts Luke. No response. Five minutes pass. Nothing. Again. Luke always responds immediately. Always available. But now—silence.
Thirty minutes. The silence transforms. What if something happened overnight? What if the crisis escalated? Luke's voice had carried that urgent edge, that vulnerability he never showed.
Finally cleared for departure. Paul texts one more time. Powers down. The aircraft accelerates, lifts, commits to air over ground.
Exhaustion descends. The steady hum of engines. Vibration through the frame. Paul surrenders to sleep at thirty thousand feet, suspended between Adelaide and Hobart.
The worry's still there though—lodged in his chest like a stone.
Just a few more hours. Then he'll know.
Or he won't.
