The plane hummed steadily, a silver arrow slicing through thick clouds. Emma pressed her forehead against the window, watching the Atlantic stretch endlessly below. The sunrise stained the sky in hues of pink and gold, a soft contrast to the dark ocean beneath. Ireland was only a few hours away, but her mind was restless, caught between excitement and unease.
She had dreamed of this trip for years. A fresh start, a break from the monotony of her life back home. Dublin first, then west to the rolling hills and cliffs she’d only seen in pictures. But now, at 37,000 feet, that excitement was laced with something else—a feeling she couldn’t quite name.
Beside her, an elderly man shifted in his seat. His suit was well-worn, the fabric softened with age, and his hands, resting on his lap, looked like they had known a lifetime of work. He hadn’t spoken for most of the flight, but now he turned toward her, his sharp eyes flickering with something unreadable.
“Ireland,” he said, his voice thick with an accent she couldn’t quite place. “First time?”
Emma nodded. “Yeah. You?”
A small chuckle. “I’m returning.” He paused, then added, “You ever hear the stories about what lingers in the air over the Atlantic?”
Emma frowned. “Like turbulence?”
The man shook his head, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Not quite.”
The way he said it sent a shiver up her spine. She shifted in her seat, suddenly hyperaware of the hum of the engines, the quiet rustling of passengers around them. The lights overhead flickered once, a barely noticeable pulse.
She tried to laugh it off. “Well, I hope whatever lingers doesn’t mind us passing through.”
The man only smiled. “We’re all just passing through, aren’t we?”
A strange chill settled over her skin. She glanced down at her phone, searching for a distraction. No signal. Just a blank screen reflecting her own face back at her.
When she looked up again, the seat beside her was empty.
Emma blinked. The seatbelt was still fastened. The armrest was raised as if no one had been there at all.
Her pulse quickened. She turned to look down the aisle, expecting to see the man making his way to the restroom, but there was no sign of him. She glanced across the aisle at another passenger, a middle-aged woman flipping through a magazine.
“Excuse me,” Emma said, forcing a polite smile. “Did you see where the man sitting next to me went?”
The woman furrowed her brow. “What man?”
Emma hesitated. “The older man—gray suit, Irish accent. He was just here.”
The woman gave her a strange look. “You’ve been sitting alone the whole flight, love.”
Emma’s stomach dropped. “No, that’s not possible. He was—”
The intercom crackled overhead, and the captain’s voice filled the cabin. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be descending into Dublin shortly. Flight attendants, prepare for landing.”
Emma barely heard it. She turned back to the empty seat, her hands gripping the armrests. Had she dozed off? Imagined him? The more she tried to picture his face, the blurrier it became, like a dream slipping away upon waking.
The plane dipped lower, breaking through the thick clouds, and for the first time, the dark green of Ireland came into view below. The land of myths, of spirits, of things unseen.
Emma exhaled, telling herself it was just her nerves. Just exhaustion from too little sleep and too many hours lost in thought.
And yet, as the plane touched down and the wheels met the earth, she could have sworn she heard a whisper in her ear.
“Welcome home.”
