“The Jump”

“The Jump”

Eight-year-old Milo Carter wasn't like the other kids at school.

While they played tag on the dusty playground, Milo sat under the monkey bars with his eyes closed, counting slowly under his breath. When he reached ten, he vanished—just like that—in a shimmer of blue light.

And reappeared in the principal's office.

He stood there, blinking. "Sorry, again," he said, brushing crumbs off his hoodie. "I was trying for the vending machine."

Principal Davis didn’t flinch anymore. “Milo, we talked about this. You can't just pop into places.”

“I didn’t pop, I jumped,” Milo corrected with a grin. “Popping is loud. Jumping is quiet.”

No one knew how he’d gotten this ability. His mom thought it was “extreme imagination.” His teacher assumed it was really fast running. But Milo knew it was something real. Something different. He could picture a place, focus on it, and—boom—he was there.

He first discovered it when he was five, trying to avoid a broccoli dinner. One second he was staring at the green horror on his plate, the next he was in the treehouse out back, holding his fork like a wand. Since then, he’d been testing his range.

At first, it was just across the house. Then a few streets. Then he jumped from his bedroom to the zoo—three towns away—because he’d seen it on a postcard and wanted to smell elephants.

Now, he was pushing the limit.

One afternoon, when the clouds hung low and heavy, Milo stood alone in his backyard. He held a crumpled photograph in his hand—a picture of his dad, standing by a lighthouse on the coast. His dad had gone missing two years ago on a sailing trip. Some said it was a storm. Some said it was the sea.

But Milo wasn’t so sure.

He stared at the photo until the sea air in it almost felt real. He closed his eyes and whispered, “Take me there.”

Then he jumped.

Salt slammed into his face like a bucket of ocean. He stumbled, falling to his knees on a rocky cliffside. The lighthouse stood tall and cracked before him, gulls circling its crown.

Then he heard it.

A soft humming. Low and warm. Like a voice he almost remembered.

He followed the sound around the base of the lighthouse and found a small boathouse, the door barely hanging on.

Inside, a man sat hunched over a map, graying at the edges, his eyes tired but kind.

“Milo?” the man asked, voice trembling.

Milo swallowed hard. “Dad?”

They stared at each other. The boy who could jump anywhere. The father who’d been stuck, waiting for someone to find him.

“I knew you’d come,” his father whispered.

Milo smiled, tears on his cheeks. “I told Mom you weren’t gone. You were just... out of reach.”

He stepped forward and held out his hand. “Ready to jump home?”

The man nodded. “Ready.”

And in a shimmer of blue light—they vanished.