PROLOGUE
The last time I heard my daughter laugh, she was standing in an airport thousands of miles away from me.
The sound still lived somewhere in my memory, bright and clear, and if I allowed myself to linger on it for too long, it became almost unbearable.
Chloe had always loved airplanes. To her, flying meant adventure. She believed airplanes were magical machines that lifted people above the clouds and carried them to places that only existed in storybooks.
It was meant to be our yearly family vacation, but business had interfered the way it always seemed to.
“I’ll join you tomorrow,” I told Eva over the phone the night before they left.
My wife stood somewhere inside the busy airport terminal with Chloe beside her, balancing the phone between her shoulder and ear while trying to keep track of our overly excited six-year-old. I could hear the faint hum of airport announcements and the rolling sound of luggage wheels in the background.
“You’ve been saying that all week,” Eva replied, though there was more amusement than frustration in her voice.
“I mean it this time,” I said, leaning back in my chair and rubbing the bridge of my nose. “The meeting ends tonight. I’ll take the first flight out in the morning.”
Before she could respond, Chloe grabbed the phone.
“Daddy, you have to come,” she insisted breathlessly. “Mom said we’re going to see mountains bigger than the clouds!”
Her excitement made me smile despite the exhaustion that came from another fourteen-hour workday. “I wouldn’t miss that,” I said. “Save the biggest mountain for me, okay?”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Eva laughed softly in the background. “That child is holding you to it,” she said.
“I know,” I replied. “And I’ll be there tomorrow.”
Those were the last words I ever said to them.
The next morning began like any other.
I arrived at the office before sunrise, determined to finish the remaining paperwork before heading to the airport. The building was quiet except for the distant hum of the air conditioning and the faint glow of the city waking beyond the windows. My assistant had just stepped inside with a cup of coffee when my phone rang.
The number on the screen was unfamiliar.
I answered absently while scanning the contract in front of me. “Cole Harris.”
“Mr. Harris, I’m calling regarding Nepal Airlines Flight 601.” The voice was formal.
My pen slipped from my fingers. “My wife and daughter are on that flight,” I said slowly.
There was a pause.
Then the world I knew collapsed in the space between two breaths.
The aircraft had lost contact with air traffic control shortly after takeoff from a regional airport in the mountains. Search teams had been dispatched almost immediately. Wreckage had been located along a remote slope. There were no survivors.
I remember standing so abruptly that my chair crashed against the floor behind me. “No,” I said immediately. The word came out sharp and instinctive. “That’s not possible.”
The voice continued speaking, but my mind refused to process anything after that.
Crash.
Mountains.
