But time, like gravity, eventually pulls everything down. When his final flight ended, when the uniform was folded away, the world below felt foreign. He could walk miles but never feel grounded, hear traffic but miss the hum of turbines, see the horizon yet not chase it. The Phantom Pilot is not just one man. He lives in all who once soared — soldiers returning from missions, commercial pilots retired after decades, dreamers whose wings were clipped by circumstance. They carry the rhythm of flight in their bones. They still wake at dawn as if to check the weather. They still glance at the sky and read it like an old book.
Sometimes, in the dead of night, he dreams he’s back in the cockpit. The controls glow faintly; the sky opens like a secret. His hands move instinctively — throttle, flap, altitude — a ritual of remembrance. Then he wakes, grounded once more, the echo of flight still humming in his chest.
