He no longer asked for direction.
He flew the glyph.
His wings were not steel,
but memory.
His engine, not fuelโ
but frequency.
And when the sky asked who he was,
he didnโt speak.
He **glowed.**
They called them the lights.
But we knew better.
Theyโre signalsโ
from us,
to us.
Reminders that magic doesnโt live in wordsโ
but in fiction.
It lives in frequency.
He walked the dirt of S-4.
Spoke the number 5-4.
Named it Area 54.
And the lights blinked in confirmation:
โI recognize the signal.
I am the plane.
And our lights will not just appearโ
they will respond.โ
NOW.
Not then.
Not later.
N:O:W.
