We’d been stuck for what felt like forever, three endless hours, and young Leo was rapidly reaching his limit. He’d devoured every emergency snack, used a plastic dragon to drum on the terminal window until a security guard shot me a look, and now he was wailing because I wouldn’t let him video chat with our cat, Mittens. It was that distinct toddler shriek, the kind that seems to erupt from the very depths of their tiny lungs—the type that makes other passengers subtly, yet purposefully, shift further down the row.
I was utterly drained. My arms ached from holding him, my eyes stung from the sheer lack of sleep, and I could feel tears welling up. Not for any single reason, honestly, but for everything. The endless delay. The oppressive noise. The image of Mittens, who I knew was probably redecorating our sofa at home. And my partner—no, my late partner, Alex—not here. Not ever again.
Leo squirmed in my lap, delivering a sharp kick to my shin, and I nearly lost my composure. Just then, a gentleman two seats away leaned forward and, in a voice as soothing as a warm cup of herbal tea, inquired, “Care for a distraction for him on that device?”
He had the look of someone from an old, classic film. A beige jacket, a deep blue jumper, tailored trousers, and gleaming shoes. Probably in his mid-fifties, with a defined jawline and serene eyes, the kind that rarely seemed to blink. He didn’t carry the usual hurried, vacant expression of most frequent fliers. There was a profound stillness about him. Grounded.
I didn’t have the energy to object. With a tired nod and a faint, half-hearted smile, I handed over the tablet. “If he manages to break it, he’s yours,” I quipped.
Leo quieted the instant the man smiled and tapped the screen. It was like witnessing a delicate operation. He showed Leo how to sketch a space capsule, then somehow transformed it into a simple game where the capsule bounced between celestial bodies. Leo was completely captivated, giggling with that pure, unadulterated joy only toddlers possess, as if happiness were their native tongue.
“Thank you,” I said, finally shifting my weight and letting my back settle against the seat. “What’s your name?”
He didn’t respond. He simply continued to smile at Leo, guiding his finger to tap various celestial objects.
I figured perhaps he hadn’t heard me over the constant airport announcements. Or maybe he was just one of those individuals who preferred their own company. I didn’t press the issue. After all, Leo was quiet. That alone felt like a minor miracle.
Then the man pointed to a specific celestial body on the screen and said, “Leo, tap that one. That’s the one your papa used to cherish.”
It didn’t register immediately. I was taking a sip of my lukewarm airport coffee when the words hit me like a sudden, chilling splash.
Slowly, I looked up. My breath caught in my throat. “Wait… what did you just say?”
But the man was already standing. He gently returned the tablet to Leo’s lap, adjusted the strap of his carry-on, and walked away towards the far end of the concourse.
I watched him go, my heart thumping.
I had never mentioned Leo’s name to him. I had never said anything about Leo’s papa. Nothing about Alex. Nothing about the accident. Alex had passed away almost exactly two years prior, during a transfer out of this very Skyhaven terminal. A bizarre runway incident during a storm. He hadn’t even reached the flight deck.
The grief had, for the most part, settled into a dull throb, but now it felt raw again. Electrifying. That man couldn’t possibly have known. Unless—
I picked up the tablet. The game was gone. The screen had reverted to its main display, as if it had never been touched. I tried opening the drawing application. Nothing. No space capsule. No celestial bodies.
My palms were sweating. I looked around for the man, but he was gone. Not just out of sight—vanished. I got up, Leo whining at my hip, and walked the entire perimeter of the concourse. I even checked the washrooms and nearby eateries.
Nothing.
Back at the gate, a woman with a travel pillow around her neck raised an eyebrow. “Looking for that fellow in the jacket? He left a few minutes ago. Didn’t seem like he was flying anywhere.”
My stomach tightened. I sank back into my seat and pulled Leo close. He was already drifting off, as if the entire event had been a dream.
Later, on the flight, I sat replaying the moment. “That’s the one your papa used to cherish.” Those precise words. The star on the screen. Alex used to talk about a digital pastime he was crafting on his tablet during layovers. He called it Cosmic Voyager. He’d said he’d teach Leo to play when he was old enough. I never found the finished pastime after he died. Just a folder on his laptop with a few lines of code and some stellar blueprints.
I thought maybe I was just tired. Maybe my mind was playing tricks on me. But I couldn’t shake the sensation. That man had known something. Something profoundly real.
When we landed in Silverwood and I switched on my phone, I had one unread message. No sender, no subject line. Just a note that read:
He’s going to be alright. Both of you will be.
And below that, an attached image. A sketch of a space capsule soaring towards a celestial body. The exact one Leo had tapped.
I dropped the phone.
Weeks passed. I asked every tech-savvy friend I knew how an email could appear with no sender. No one could explain it. I sifted through my call logs, my tablet’s history. No trace of the application or the pastime.
I even contacted the airport to see if there was any security footage from Portal Gamma-7. They couldn’t share anything, citing privacy regulations. But a woman from the airline called me back later and said, “There’s no record of a man matching that description boarding or exiting near your gate. I’m truly sorry.”
That sketch now hangs framed above Leo’s bed. He points to it every night and says, “That’s Papa’s star.”
I don’t have all the answers. I don’t even have most of them. But here’s what I do know: someone saw us that day. Someone who knew more than they should have and chose, for a brief moment, to offer solace.
Perhaps he was simply a kind-hearted individual. Perhaps he was someone Alex had helped once, in another time and place. Or perhaps the world is brimming with quiet wonders that don’t demand solutions—only observation.
All I know is, when I was at my most depleted, when I had nothing left to give, someone bestowed joy upon my son and peace upon me.
So now I sit with Leo on my lap every evening, tablet in hand, sketching celestial bodies and space capsules. And when he asks, “Which one is Papa’s?” I always say, “The brightest one, buddy. The one that found us when we needed it most.”
Have you ever encountered someone who seemed to know more than they should? Someone who altered your day—or your life—with just a few words? Share this if you have. You never know who might need to read it.
