I placed my bag on the empty seat beside me.

The engines began to whine, a low vibration humming through the floorboards.

“We’re cleared for takeoff,” the pilot announced over the speaker.

Gabriel looked at me, his eyes quiet and steady.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready,” I said.

The plane began to taxi forward, turning toward the runway.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the top letter from the stack.

My mother’s handwriting was neat, the ink faded but legible.

I traced her signature with my thumb.

She had wanted me to be free.

The plane accelerated, the force pushing me back into my seat as we lifted off the ground.

The lights of Chicago became a grid of tiny, glowing dots beneath us.

Then we entered the clouds, and everything went dark.

I placed the letter back in my bag and zipped it shut.

We were flying west, toward a sky that would eventually turn to morning.

For the first time in my life, I had no accounts to settle, no secrets to keep, and no legacy to carry.

I reached across the aisle and took Gabriel’s hand.

He squeezed it gently.

I looked out the window as the plane climbed higher, leaving the past behind us in the dark.