Lysandra found a bench near a window, set her bag down, and sat.
Her hands folded in her lap, steady as always.
A woman nearby, juggling a coffee and a phone, glanced at her and muttered to her friend: “God, they let anyone in here now.”
Lysandra’s eyes flicked up, catching the woman’s gaze for a split second.
The woman froze, then turned away, pretending to check her phone. Lysandra didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to.
That look—calm, unflinching—said everything. She pulled out a small notebook from her bag, flipped it open, and jotted something down.
Just a few words. Then she closed it, tucked it away, and stared out at the planes rolling by.
Years ago, she’d sat in a different kind of airport, smaller, dirtier.
Her mom’s old station wagon had broken down just outside, and Lysandra, barely a teenager, had waited on a cracked vinyl seat while her dad argued with a mechanic over the phone.
