CHAPTER 397
Private Skies & The Quiet Shape of Goodbye
The private terminal didn't feel like an airport.
It never did.
There were no crowds, no frantic announcements echoing through cheap speakers, no cries of toddlers or rattling of overloaded luggage carts. Everything here was hushed, filtered, curated to an almost unreal calm. The air smelled faintly of polished glass and expensive cologne. White marble floors reflected the soft overhead lights, and beyond the tall windows stretched an endless strip of runway, dusted lightly with remnants of melting frost.
Outside, Andy's family jet waited like a creature resting before flight — sleek, silver, unapologetically elite.
Michelle stood slightly apart from the group, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, watching as the staff moved efficiently around the aircraft. Every detail of this goodbye felt surreal, as if winter itself had decided to bow out slowly, refusing to vanish without softness.
