He didn’t need permission to fly anymore. He didn’t need forgiveness. He didn’t need a uniform or a rank or a call sign to prove who he was. He was a mechanic who could touch the edge of space.
A father who came home every night. A man who carried his grief not as a chain but as a compass, pointing him toward the things that mattered most. Caleb Reed was no longer hiding. He was no longer the ghost.
He was the man his son drew in art class, the man his crew trusted, the man who stood up when no one else would, and flew when everyone said he couldn’t. And the sky, after 10 long years of waiting.
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