The map I kept from my last flight

Found it in a drawer yesterday—crumpled, coffee-stained, the edge worn from years of being folded and unfolded. It’s not much: just a hand-drawn route from Larnaca to Kavala, with notes in pencil about wind drift and fuel burn. I never flew that leg again, but I kept it anyway. Not for the data. For the quiet certainty of knowing exactly where you were supposed to be, even when you weren’t.