Zane didn't remember driving to the airport. He didn't remember checking in, or the way the attendant repeated his name twice because he didn't respond the first time. He barely remembered the flight—just a blur of pressurized air and recycled oxygen and the tight, unbearable squeeze of a chest that hadn't unclenched since the night Willow disappeared from his life.
He sat in his seat, unmoving, eyes fixed on the small plane window as dawn broke over the horizon. It painted soft pink across the sky—a color that reminded him of the way Willow's cheeks flushed when she laughed. He didn't blink. He didn't dare. If he blinked, he was terrified the memory would vanish, just like she had.
He took out his phone again.
Two photos.
One: Willow leaning over his kitchen counter, hair messy, teasing him about burning toast. The sunlight on her face. The sparkle in her eyes. A version of her untouched by fear.
He stared at that photo until it hurt.
