Chapter 40: “Letters Across the Wind”

  Scene 1: Letter from Ren’s Parents – “The Wind Just Wants You to Move”

  —-: Ren

  The envelope smelled faintly of oil and sugar.

  Probably from his dad’s hands—the former from tinkering with junkyard engines in the shed, the latter from that absurd obsession with ginger cookies he swore “improved critical thinking.”

  Ren sat on the edge of his bunk, feet bare, hair still damp from a post-race shower. The paper was crumpled at the corners from where it had been stuffed into the school mail slot—probably by a tired delivery crow.

  He opened it slowly. No one else in the room. No audience.

  Just him and the words.

  Dear Ren,

  We saw the Firefly race.

  Your engine sounded like a blender in its final death rattle. We’re assuming that was intentional, because it looked fantastic.

  We watched from the roof. Your aunt cried. I spilled tea on your mother when you clipped that ring. Would’ve yelled at you if we weren’t winded from the cheering.

  You looked like yourself.

  Not someone we built. Just someone who built himself.

  We’ve never been the kind of parents who say the right things. But if there’s anything we’ve learned from the sky, it’s this:

  The wind doesn’t ask for perfection.

  It just wants you to keep moving.

  P.S. Still waiting for a letter that isn’t just “Race went fine. Still alive. Gears noisy.”

  P.P.S. Seriously, your engine sounded terrible.

  P.P.P.S. We’re proud.

  Ren stared at the last line for a long time.

  His throat burned a little.

  The bunk creaked softly as he leaned back, letter resting against his chest like armor made of just enough love.

  Outside the dorm window, the wind pushed against the glass—not loud. Not forceful.

  Just there.

  Always there.

  Scene 2: Ren’s Reply – “The Pilot I Want to Be”

  —-: Ren

  The ink smudged halfway through the word “engine.”

  Ren wiped the edge of the paper with his sleeve, muttered something rude under his breath, and tried again. The school-issued pen wasn’t helping—it leaked just enough to make every sentence feel like a mechanical threat.

  Still, he wrote.

  By hand.

  Because it felt better that way.

  Dear Mom. Dear Dad.

  You were right. It did sound terrible. That wasn’t intentional, by the way—the third coil regulator blew mid-dive and Hana still hasn’t let me live it down.

  Also, please stop letting Aunt Maren bet on my races. She sent me a sweater with “0.6 Seconds Club” stitched across the back. In glitter thread.

  (He paused here. Ran a hand through his hair. Then continued, slower.)

  I’ve been thinking about what kind of pilot I want to be.

  For a while, I thought that meant being the fastest. Or the cleanest.

  Or the kind that makes the announcers scream.

  But… that’s not really it.

  I don’t think I want to be the best pilot.

  I want to be the one they can fly with.

  The one who doesn’t freeze in storms. Who listens. Who keeps the team in the air—even when the wings groan.

  Mei saved us last race.

  Hana held the ship together with her bare hands.

  Rin let me fly her curve when I had nothing else.

  That’s the sky I want.

  One with room for all of us.

  (He paused again. Tapped the pen against the margin.)

  I’m still learning.

  But I’m still moving.

  Love,

  Ren

  He folded the letter once. Neat.

  Then slipped it under his flight journal, just for now.

  Because maybe the best kind of reply—

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Was one you meant to send.

  Even if it never left the room.

  Scene 3: Dorm Shenanigans – “We Actually Fly On Feelings?”

  —-: Jiro

  It started with a single flyer.

  A sketch of the Silver Dart, scribbled fast and messy on recycled parchment, with all the structural accuracy of a potato.

  The slogan beneath it?

  “We Actually Fly On Feelings?”

  —Official Motto of Team Disastercore

  Jiro stared at it.

  Then grinned.

  “This is art.”

  He printed forty-six.

  The dorm vents were a beautiful, underused piece of infrastructure—connective, hollow, and just wide enough for a paper launch tube. He rigged one using a coil spring, two sporks, and Saki’s leftover bubble tea straw.

  “FIRE IN THE FUNNEL!” he yelled.

  The first flyer shot through the system and exploded out of Taiga’s wall vent like a motivational grenade.

  “AUGH!” Taiga flailed mid-sit-up, got tangled in his sweatband, and collapsed backwards into a pile of half-folded racing jerseys. “I’VE BEEN HIT BY A FEELING!”

  Next came Rin’s room.

  The flyer spiral-shot like a dart and landed directly on her pillow.

  She picked it up, read the tagline, and narrowed her eyes.

  "...Jiro."

  Three more hit the hallway.

  One floated down the stairwell like a gentle emotional pamphlet.

  Mei opened her door, picked one off the floor, tilted her head—

  Then slid it into her pocket.

  Silently.

  Downstairs, Ren heard the vents pop and instinctively ducked—right as one landed on his shoulder.

  He peeled it off.

  Stared.

  Then laughed.

  A short, honest laugh that cracked through the tension of the week like sunlight breaking steam.

  Outside, on the side deck, Hana found a flyer tangled in the wheel well of the Dart. She smoothed it out with stained fingers and smiled, just barely.

  On the back, Jiro had written in tiny print:

  “This team flies because you built the wings.”

  She folded it once.

  Kept it.

  And in the vents above, Jiro—grinning like an idiot with goggles pushed up on his head—loaded three more.

  “Long live Flight Club.”

  Scene 4: Rin and Hana – “We’ll Figure It Out After Finals”

  —-: Hana

  The sun was bleeding orange across the campus rooftops, tinting every rusted edge and dangling wire like something holy. The wind hadn’t picked up yet—not the kind that meant a storm. Just enough to ruffle her bangs.

  Hana sat on the workshop roof, legs over the side, arms loose around her knees.

  Rin joined her without a sound.

  No greeting.

  No apology.

  Just sat. One boot up, the other dangling, goggles hanging around her neck like a medal she hadn’t asked for.

  The silence between them was… comfortable. For once.

  Until Rin spoke.

  “You still like him, don’t you?”

  Hana’s heart lurched sideways.

  She blinked. “...Is that a real question?”

  Rin didn’t look at her. Just shrugged.

  Hana let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I do.”

  The breeze stirred the edge of her sleeve. The horizon burned gold.

  A beat.

  Then:

  “So do you,” Hana said, quieter this time.

  Rin didn’t flinch.

  Didn’t deny it.

  Just let the air move between them.

  Neither girl looked at the other.

  Both kept watching the sky, like the answer might be spelled out in the clouds if they just stared long enough.

  “You want to fight over him?” Rin asked, voice bone-dry.

  Hana snorted. “Do you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Same.”

  The wind blew stronger. A glider passed far overhead, trailing a burst of colored steam.

  They both watched it until it vanished.

  Then, like it was nothing:

  “We’ll figure it out,” Rin said.

  Hana nodded. “After finals.”

  Another shared silence. This one softer.

  Rin leaned back on her hands.

  Hana didn’t move—but her smile lingered longer than usual.

  And in that moment, nothing needed solving.

  Because some feelings didn’t crash.

  They just… flew beside each other.

  Scene 5: Grandpa’s Final Line – “The Wind’s Watching”

  —-: Ren

  The lift gears clicked and groaned as the Dart descended into the hangar for the night. It was almost ceremonial—the way the light spilled across her hull, catching the shimmer of polished seams and the faint scratches that told their own kind of story.

  Ren stood at the railing above, arms folded.

  Not proud.

  Not triumphant.

  Just quiet.

  Trying to feel what it meant to be here again—after all of it.

  He heard the wrench before he saw the man.

  A single clang against the side strut.

  Then the unmistakable scrape of Grandpa’s boots across the floor.

  “Still brooding?” Grandpa called, voice gravelly and unapologetic.

  Ren didn’t look down. “Just thinking.”

  “Dangerous habit, that one.”

  Ren let out a faint laugh. “Thought you'd be yelling about the stabilizer bracket again.”

  “I already yelled. You just weren’t listening.” Another wrench turn. A heavy exhale. “Besides, it held.”

  Ren leaned further over the rail, watching the old man slot a crystal seal into place with the care of someone who’d built more ships than mistakes.

  “Grandpa,” he said. “What do you think makes a pilot ready?”

  The old man didn’t answer right away.

  Just gave the Dart one more thump of the panel—an affectionate knock, like patting a shoulder—and stepped back.

  Then, with a glance up:

  “You’re asking the wrong question.”

  Ren frowned.

  Grandpa wiped his hands on a cloth, then tucked it into his belt like a soldier holstering his last weapon.

  He looked up, eyes sharp beneath his brow, and said:

  “The storm’s passed. But the wind’s watching.”

  “So you all better be ready.”

  And with that, he turned.

  Didn’t wait for a reply.

  Didn’t need one.

  Ren stayed there long after he was gone, listening to the faint echo of tools being put away, the hiss of cooling coils…

  …and the breeze slipping through the cracked upper vent like a promise.

  Scene 6: Closing Image – “Twilight Lift”

  —-: Hana

  The hangar was mostly dark now, except for the lanterns.

  Not electric. Not crystal-powered.

  Fireflies.

  Tiny flickering orbs caught in glass spheres—an old Hinode tradition, mostly used for midsummer festivals or low-visibility ceremonies. Mei had quietly placed a few on the railing. Jiro added more. Then Saki, then Taiga.

  By nightfall, the floor looked like it was scattered with stars.

  Hana stood near the lift controls, thumb resting on the activation lever, watching the Dart rise slowly from its pit—platform gears humming in their syncopated rhythm, pressure rings glowing faintly beneath the ship’s belly.

  Ren and Rin were somewhere behind her, talking softly, but she didn’t listen.

  Not because she didn’t care.

  Because right now, this was hers.

  The silver-blue hull caught every flicker of firelight.

  The crystal lines along the side gleamed faintly.

  And for the first time since she'd put her wrench down…

  Hana felt the Dart breathe.

  Not like a machine.

  Like a creature.

  Alive, waiting, listening.

  She reached out, hand hovering just above the fuselage. Not touching. Just… feeling the warmth still radiating off the engine housing.

  Behind her, someone whispered.

  “Looks ready.”

  She didn’t answer.

  Didn’t have to.

  The Dart rose to its final stop.

  Lanterns glowing around its base.

  Hull gleaming like wet starlight.

  The scars of old races kissed with polish.

  The new upgrades snug and quiet—no show, no sound. Just potential.

  And all around it, the team stood without posing. No press. No announcers.

  Just them.

  The wind moved gently through the rafters.

  Not demanding.

  Just watching.

  Waiting.

  The Dart was ready.

  They were getting there too.