The crack was still there. Real. Imperfect.

Then she looked forward.

A chill ran down her spine. How many flights had that tiny flaw accompanied her? Over the Pacific, over the Arctic, through turbulence and calm? It was a silent passenger. A secret.

The main windshield. The rain was frozen in time—a million digital droplets suspended against the runway lights. Beyond the glass, the control tower glowed amber. And beyond that, the black shape of the Olympic Mountains cut into a bruised purple sky.