THREE MONTHS LATER
Walter’s health deteriorated quickly.
Terrence spent as much time with him as possible.
Some days they talked about the past.
Some days they argued.
Some days they simply sat together.
But they never went silent again.
Then, one afternoon, Walter gave Terrence a final gift.
A pilot’s logbook.
Inside were hundreds of handwritten entries.
The first one was dated nearly thirty years earlier.
At the bottom of the first page, Walter had written:
Today, I taught my son how to fly.
Terrence closed the book.
“He called me his son.”
I smiled.
“He always was.”
