I didn’t even notice him at first.
I was deep into my audiobook, half-tuned out from the turbulence, and trying to pretend the guy beside me wasn’t sighing dramatically every time I shifted in my seat. And then I felt a small tug on my sleeve. A tiny hand. I looked down and there he was—this little boy, maybe three or four years old, red-eyed like he’d just stopped crying, staring up at me in the aisle like he was searching for something.
Before I could even ask him what was wrong, he climbed right into my lap.
Just curled up like he knew me. Like this was his spot.
I froze.
Passengers glanced over, but no one said a word. The flight attendant passed by, gave a soft smile like it was the sweetest thing she’d seen all day, and kept walking. And there I was, holding this child I didn’t know, unsure what to do—but he had already laid his head under my arm and was breathing deeply, like he could finally relax.
I scanned the rows, expecting a panicked parent to pop up at any second. But nothing. No frantic voices. No searching eyes. Just the hum of the plane and the weight of this boy in my arms.
I held him for the rest of the flight. No one claimed him. No announcements. No questions.
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