I never thought I’d fear the sky. But now, standing at the threshold of the cockpit, my hand hesitates on the lever. The plane hums beneath me, alive and waiting. Passengers are strapped in, unaware that their lives rest in the hands of someone who once forgot how to land.

'Captain?' my first officer asks. 'We’re cleared for takeoff.'

I nod, sliding into the seat. The harness clicks—a sound too loud in my ears. The engines roar, and the runway blurs. For a moment, everything is normal. Then, just as we lift off, the navigation screen flickers. A voice—mechanical, calm—says, 'You should not have returned.'

My blood freezes. No one else reacts. Did I hear that? Or is it starting again?