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I was doing my final cabin check before takeoff when I heard a soft shuffling noise from one of the lavatories. At first, I thought a passenger had snuck in at the last minute, but when I knocked, there was no response. The door wasn’t locked.
I pushed it open.
And there he was—a little boy, no older than five, curled up in the corner. His big brown eyes locked onto mine, wide with fear. He was barefoot, his tiny feet dirty, his clothes slightly oversized like they belonged to someone else. My heart clenched.
The second he saw me, he sprang forward, throwing his arms around my neck. “Mama!” he cried, pressing desperate kisses against my cheek. I froze.
He clung to me like I was his lifeline, his small body trembling. My first instinct was to comfort him, to tell him everything would be okay—but something wasn’t right.
Where were his parents? How had he gotten onto the plane without anyone noticing?
I glanced over my shoulder. The cabin crew was busy, passengers settling into their seats. No one had come looking for a missing child.
I gently pulled back to look at his face. “Sweetheart, where’s your mama?” I asked softly.
But instead of answering, his grip tightened, and he buried his face in my shoulder.
That’s when I noticed something else—his little hands were covered in faint smudges, like ink or marker. And on his wrist, barely visible under his sleeve, were numbers.
Handwritten.
A chill ran down my spine.
(full story in the first cᴑmment
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