Flight 909

Flight 909

By Salah Uddin

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Darren Geller boarded Flight 909 with nothing but a carry-on and a half-dead phone. It was supposed to be a cheap, two-hour hop from Denver to Portland—a forgettable connection between business meetings. The airline, Avia West, had a retro feel. No digital check-ins, no app—just a paper ticket and a weary-looking stewardess who scanned it with a nod.

The plane itself was...odd. The seats were clean but old, like something from the early 90s. The in-flight magazine offered sudoku puzzles and cassette ads. Darren chuckled and settled into 14A, the window seat.

Takeoff was smooth. Then came the announcement.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” crackled the pilot’s voice, “we’d like to inform you that Flight 909 will no longer be arriving in Portland. We thank you for your understanding.”

Laughter rippled through the cabin, assuming it was a joke.

But the flight didn’t descend. Hours passed.

Darren tapped his phone—no signal. His watch read 3:18 p.m., the exact time the flight had taken off.

Still.

Again.

And again.

Every time he checked, it was 3:18 p.m.

He turned to the passenger beside him, a middle-aged woman with a small backpack and tear-soaked eyes.

“Do you know what's going on?” he asked.

She looked at him like she hadn’t heard speech in years. “First time?”

“What?”

She pointed to his phone. “You haven’t accepted it yet. You’re stuck in the loop. Like I was.”

Darren felt a chill crawl down his spine. “What loop?”

The overhead lights dimmed. A soft chime rang.

“Refreshments?” the stewardess asked. Her smile was...hollow, but her eyes were kind. “Tea, coffee, or memory?”

“Excuse me?” Darren said.

“Memory,” she repeated, holding out a small glass vial. Inside shimmered something blue.

Against instinct, he took it.

The moment he drank, his stomach twisted—and the world blurred.

Suddenly, he wasn’t on the plane. He was standing at the hospital door he had never opened. The one he skipped the night his father died. He saw himself, in a past timeline, walking away to catch a different flight.

Then—snap—he was back in seat 14A.

Gasping.

The woman beside him nodded. “Everyone here missed a moment they were meant to live. Flight 909 gives you a second pass. But you have to be willing.”

The pilot’s voice returned. “Prepare for turbulence. Some memories resist being changed.”

Darren clutched the armrest. More vials came. With each one, he faced regrets he had buried:

• The wedding proposal he never made.

• The call to his mother he ignored.

• The time he lied to his best friend and never said sorry.

Each memory hit harder than the last.

And then came the final vial—silver, glowing.

“This one brings you to the choice,” the stewardess said softly.

He drank.

And found himself outside a bar in Portland, years earlier. Inside, his ex-fiancée waited for an answer she never got. He had ghosted her, convinced he’d lose his freedom.

Now he saw her again, eyes hopeful.

He stepped through the door and sat beside her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Her face changed—pain, then peace.

Snap.

The plane tilted slightly. The clouds thinned. Land came into view.

Darren blinked. The watch ticked forward—3:19 p.m.

They were descending.

Passengers looked out their windows, stunned. Many cried. Some smiled.

Flight 909 landed at an airport with no name. But it didn’t matter.

Darren stepped off the plane, lighter than he’d felt in years.

The terminal was empty, bathed in golden light.

A sign hung above the exit:

“Your time has resumed. Make it count.”