**The Homecoming**
James fastened his seatbelt and absentmindedly adjusted the seatback. He flew oftentoo often, if he was honest. Once a month, sometimes more: conferences, meetings, whirlwind business trips that left his head spinning worse than cheap whisky. This time had been particularly routinetwo days of negotiations, signatures, a dull dinner with colleaguesand now, back to London.
The only difference? The destination. The plane wasnt headed to Berlin or Edinburgh, but to a small town in the Midlands where hed been born and which hed fled twenty years ago. Hed only been back twice sinceonce for his fathers funeral, then his mothers. Both times, hed been desperate to return to the hum of London traffic, to his projects, to a life too busy for reflection.
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Last night, hed been in a pub with colleagues, arguing over some presentation. Someone got drunk and started strumming *Wonderwall* on the guitar. Absurdly, that tune had stuck in his head, playing now in time with the engines drone. He almost smiled.
“Water or juice, sir?” The flight attendant hovered over him, her smile polished, practiced.
“Water, thanks.”
She handed him a plastic cup. He nodded. The water was lukewarm, as if left in the sun. But he drank it anyway.
The man beside him muttered something, flipping through a magazine.
“Prices are bonkers, eh?” His neighbour glanced up.
“Always have been,” James replied. “Theyre flogging watches here for the price of a flat.”
Both chuckled, and for a moment, it felt easy, almost cosy.
The plane hummed steadily, a gentle sway in the air. Somewhere ahead, a baby cried but was quickly soothed. Someone fiddled with the overhead light, chasing the perfect angle. A girl across the aisle giggled at her phone, the screen casting a pale glow on her face, making her look younger than she was.
James turned to the window, expecting at least the faint glow of a village below, the ribbon of a motorway, a star blinking. Insteadjust black. Thick, matte, like someone had pasted dark film over the glass.
“Bit dark out there, innit?” His neighbour peered over. “Cant see a bloody thing.”
James shrugged. “Well its night.”
But something uneasy stirred in his chest. Night breathes. This was just emptiness.
He checked his phone out of habit. No signal. Of coursehe always forgot mid-flight. Still, his fingers twitched, hoping for a message from his son. *At least send a thumbs-up*, he thought, locking the screen with a wry smirk.
“You getting anything?” the neighbour asked.
“Dead as a doornail,” James said. “Shouldnt expect otherwise.”
The man grunted and went back to his magazine, thumbing the glossy pages as if he could feel the fabric of the ridiculously priced coats.
The plane lurched slightlyjust turbulence, nothing unusual. But the water in his cup rippled too evenly, like invisible fingers tapping the surface.
From the row behind, a womans voice: “You sure theyll meet us?”
Another replied, “Course. Said theyd wait right by arrivals.”
The word *wait* stuck in his head. James pressed his forehead to the window. Still nothing. No lights, no stars. Just black fabric wrapped tight around the plane.
He thought of his mother. Ten years in the ground now. He remembered standing at her grave in his black overcoat, the earth so wrong where her laughter shouldve been. Now, staring into the void, he almost heard her voice*Jamie*and flinched like hed been shocked.
“You alright?” His neighbour again.
James blinked. “Just remembered something.”
“Ah,” the man said. “Well, dont think about the turbulence.”
He tried to read, but the words blurred. Sentences slipped away, letters smudged. His gaze kept drifting back to the window. Just normal darkness, right? What else should be there?
His neighbour snorted, flipping a page. “Six grand for a watch. Could buy a bloody Mini for that.”
“Mm,” James said, smiling politely.
Across the aisle, another conversation: “She said, Wait for us by lunch.”
Then another voice, higher: “Mine said the sameWait for us by lunch.”
Coincidence, surely. But the word *wait* sent a chill through him, like a door left open to a draught. He stared harder at the window.
His reflection stared backpale, tired. No clouds, no lights. Just perfect black, so thick he imagined reaching out and his fingers vanishing into it.
“Dark, eh?” His neighbour again. “Could poke your eye out and not notice.”
“Night,” James said. “Same as always.”
But inside, the word sounded wrong. Night is alive. This was dead.
He set the book down, sipped the tepid water, and rolled his eyes. Full flight, yet it felt like sitting in a basement.
The trolley rattled past. The attendant leaned over. “Tea or coffee?”
“Tea, thanks. Lemon, if youve got,” a woman said.
Her friend added, identical tone: “Same. Tea with lemon.”
Both voices matched, rehearsed. James frowned. Then the girl in headphones giggled, mimicking in a singsong: *”With lemon, with lemon”*
His neighbour stopped flipping pages, frowning but saying nothing.
The plane shivered. Water trembled in the cup, ripples spreading like spiderwebs. James touched the surfaceit stiffened, like glass. Strange. But exhaustion explained it.
***
Captain Reynolds checked the instruments again, then the windshield. Nothing. Even on moonless nights, there were gaps in clouds, a horizon, stars. This was just black. Like the cockpit had been wheeled into a hangar and abandoned.
“Maybe were in cloud,” he said, unconvincing even to himself.
“At this altitude? With no turbulence?” The co-pilot shook his head. “Radars blank.”
“Solar flare. Plasma layers happens.”
“Then wheres the static?”
Reynolds tapped the radioonly silence hissed back.
He knew it didnt add up. Twenty years flying, and this felt like no glitch hed ever seen.
The co-pilot pressed his forehead to the side window. “Could it be snowfields? We just cant see em?”
“Snow glows,” Reynolds said. “This is black.”
They ran through the checks again. Course steady. Altitude stable. Fuel fine. Engines purring. Everything workedexcept the world outside.
“You know,” the co-pilot muttered, “if it were a storm, Id get it. If it were ocean, fine. But this isnt night. Night *breathes*.”
“Breathes,” Reynolds agreed, staring into the void.
He reached for the mic. Couldnt bring himself to say *everythings fine*.
“Ladies and gents,” he said, voice flat. “Were continuing our descent. Navigation systems are temporarily unavailable, but the aircraft is operating normally. The crew has full control.”
He released the button.
Silence hissed back. Outside, the black wall held them, waiting for the fuel to run dry.
***
The announcement crackled, then died. Silence. Thick, basement quiet. Thenpeople broke.
Jamess neighbour slammed his magazine shut, face taut. “*Temporarily unavailable*? Are we *lost*?”
No one answered. But heads turned.
The girl in the bunny-print jumper started cryingdry, shaky sobs. A stranger handed her a tissue. She crushed it in her fist.
Up front, a man in a sharp suit jabbed the call button. “What dyou mean *no navigation*? Ive a connection to catch!” His voice trembledanger masking fear.
The mother whod hushed her baby earlier sat rigid, stroking his hair too fast, eyes darting.
And from the backlaughter. High, unhinged, wrong.
James watched, detached. Here they were, real. Some shouting, some weeping, some clinging to children like life rafts. Masks off. Maybe this was honesty, better than prattle about watches and coats.
His neighbour breathed like hed sprinted. The suited mans voice cracked mid-rant. The giggling girl hid her face. *No, no, no*
The baby wailed. His mother rocked him, too frantic to soothe. No one shushed herthe sound was human, proof the world still existed.
The laughter behind them didnt stop. A young man, gasping, slapping his seat. Someone yelled *shut up!* He only laughed harder, mechanical, like a broken toy.
James felt calm. Everyone else was naked. He wondered when his own mask would slip.
Thena memory. His mother at the train station, waving. *Wait for us by lunch.* He shook his head.
