
“What’d you fly?”
“Oh, whatever needed flying.” He gave a small shrug, as if the details were unimportant. “Cargo. Rescue. The odd emergency route on Christmas Eve.”
“Christmas Eve?” the student holding the baby asked. “Like… weathering storms?”
“Like whatever came through the air that night,” he said, eyes glinting.

She held still, afraid the smallest movement would break whatever spell she’d stumbled into. The sound drifted again—brief, bright, unmistakable. Like bells carried on a current of night air.

Christmas Eve aboard the Cousteau was usually a warm, bustling affair. The crew decorated bulkheads with replicated garlands, brewed small batches of spiced tea in the galley, and argued cheerfully about which Earth tradition counted as “real Christmas.”