Oliver fastened his seatbelt and absentmindedly adjusted the seatback. He flew oftentoo often, if he was honest. Once a month, sometimes more: conferences, meetings, quick business trips that left his head spinning worse than cheap whiskey. This time was especially routine: two days of negotiations, signatures, a dinner with clientsthen back to London.
The only difference was the destination. The plane wasnt heading to France or Edinburgh, but to a small town in the South where hed been born and had run away from twenty years ago. Hed only been back twice sinceonce for his fathers funeral, then for his mothers. Both times, hed wanted to rush back to the noise of city traffic, to his projects, to a life where there was no time to think.
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Last night, hed been in a pub with colleagues, arguing over some presentation. Someone had gotten drunk and started singing *”Whiskey in the Jar”* off-key. Funny how that tune had stuck in his head, humming softly under the engines drone. He even smiled a little.
“Excuse me, would you like juice or water?” The flight attendant leaned over him, her smile polished and practised.
“Water, please.”
She handed him a plastic cup. He nodded. The water was lukewarm, like it had been sitting in the sun. But he was thirsty.
The man beside him muttered something, flipping through a magazine.
“Prices are mad, arent they?” he said, glancing up.
“Always have been,” Oliver replied. “Theyre selling watches here that cost more than a flat.”
They both chuckled, and for a moment, it felt easy. Almost homey.
The plane flew smoothly, gently rocking. A baby cried somewhere ahead, but the mother quickly hushed it. Someone clicked the overhead light on and off, chasing the glow. A girl across the aisle giggled at her phone screenthe blue light made her look younger than she was.
Oliver turned to the window. He expected to see at least a faint glow from a village below, the streak of a motorway, a star winking overhead. But outside was just a thick, matte blackness. Like someone had glued a dark film over the glass.
“Dark out there, eh?” the man beside him said, peering over his shoulder. “Couldnt see a thing.”
Oliver shrugged. “Well its night.”
But something sticky and uneasy stirred in his gut. Night breathes. This was just empty.
He checked his phone out of habit. The screen flashedno signal. Of course. He always forgot about that in the air. Still, the reflex remained: reaching for the screen, hoping for a message from his son. *”Just send a bloody emoji,”* he thought, locking the phone with a wry smile.
“No signal either?” the man asked.
“None,” Oliver said. “Shouldnt be any up here.”
“Right,” the man replied, going back to his magazine. This time, he lingered on an ad for luxury coats, fingers tracing the glossy page like he could feel the fabric.
The plane dipped slightly, just a bump. Nothing unusualjust turbulence. But the water in Olivers cup rippled too evenly, like invisible fingers tapping the surface.
From the row behind, a womans voice: “Youre sure theyre meeting us?”
“Of courseI rang them. They said theyd wait right by the gate,” another answered.
The word *”wait”* stuck in Olivers head. He pressed his forehead to the window. Still nothing. No spark, no light. Just black fabric wrapped tight around the plane.
He thought of his motherthe one buried in the old churchyard over 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 head. Now, staring through the window, he almost heard her voice*”Ollie”*and flinched like hed been shocked.
“Alright there?” the man asked.
Oliver blinked. “Just remembered something.”
“Ah,” the man said. “Well, best not to think about the turbulence.”
Oliver tried to read, but the words slipped away. The lines blurred, letters smudged. He caught himself staring at the window instead. Just blackness. Normal, right? What else should be out there?
The man beside him turned a page and snorted. “Six grand for a watch. Could buy a used Fiat for that.”
“Mm,” Oliver said. He smiled politely. It wasnt funny.
From across the aisle, a womans voice: “She said, *Wait for us by lunch.*”
Then another, higher: “Mine said the same*Wait for us by lunch.*”
A coincidence. Just two people repeating the same phrase. But that *”wait”* sent a chill through him, like someone had left a door open to a draft. He stared harder at the window.
The black glass reflected his facepale, tired. No clouds, no lights below. Just smooth darkness, so thick it felt like reaching out would make his fingers vanish.
“Dark, isnt it?” the man said again, looking past him. “Couldnt see a thing.”
“Its night,” Oliver replied. “Just night.”
He said it aloud, but inside, the words twisted: *Nights alive. This isnt.*
He set the book down, took another sip of warm water, and rolled his eyes. Full plane, yet it felt like sitting in a basement.
The trolley squeaked down the aisle again. The flight attendant leaned over the next row: “Tea or coffee?”
The woman across the aisle lifted her cup. “Tea, thanks. Lemon, if youve got.”
Her friend added, “Same for metea with lemon.”
Both said it the same way, like theyd rehearsed. Oliver wondered if hed misheard, but then the girl in headphones giggled and mimicked, high-pitched: *”Lemon, lemon”*
The man beside him stopped flipping pages. Frowned. Said nothing.
The plane shuddered. The water in the cup trembled, ripples spreading like a drumskin. Oliver touched the surfaceit went still, like glass. Weird. But he brushed it off: just tired.
***
Captain Harris checked the instruments again, then the windshield. Nothing. Even on moonless nights, there were gaps in the clouds, a horizon, at least a haze of stars. But herejust a flat black screen, like someone had parked the cockpit in a hangar and forgotten the lights.
“Maybe were in cloud cover,” he said aloud. His voice wavered.
“At this altitude?” The co-pilot looked up. “With no turbulence? Radars blank.”
“Electromagnetic storm,” Harris suggested. “Solar flares, plasma layers happens.”
“Then wed have interference.”
“We do,” Harris said, tapping the silent radio.
He knew it sounded weak. But nothing about this matched any glitch hed seen in twenty years.
The co-pilot pressed his forehead to the side window. “Maybe snowfields below? We just cant see them?”
“Snows not like this,” Harris said. “Snow glows a bit. This is black.”
They did what they always did in uncertainty: rechecked the instruments. Coursesteady. Altitudestable. Fuelfine. Enginesperfect. Everything worked, except the world outside.
“You know,” the co-pilot said quietly, “if it were a storm, Id get it. If it were ocean, fine. But this isnt night. Night always breathes.”
“Breathes,” Harris agreed. He kept staring at the void.
He told himself: *Weve just lost bearings. Well pick up a beacon, land, routine.* But the words wouldnt stick. Like the emptiness outside muffled thought too.
Finally, he reached for the mic. But he couldnt say *”All fine.”*
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, hollow. “Were continuing our flight. Navigation systems are temporarily unavailable, but the aircraft is operating normally. The crew has the situation under control.”
He released the button.
Silence hissed in his headset. Outside, the black wall held them, like it was waiting for the fuel to run out.
***
The PA clicked off. A thick, basement-quiet followed. Then something crackednot in the systems, but in the people.
The man beside Oliver snapped his magazine shut, shoved it into the seat pocket. His face was tight, eyes gleaming.
*”Under control?”* he said, too loud. *”Whats navigation unavailable mean? Are we lost?”*
No one answered. But heads turned.
Across the aisle, the girl in the rabbit-patterned jumper stuffed her phone into her bag and started cryingdry, quiet sobs. A stranger handed her a tissue. She crumpled it in her fist, didnt wipe her eyes.
A few rows ahead, a man in a sharp suit jabbed the call button. When the attendant came, he bark
