At first, he thought it was just turbulence playing tricks on his mind. Wherever he flew, the birds followed—circling the wings, gliding beside the cockpit, tapping softly against the glass. Radar showed nothing unusual, yet they were always there.
Days later, flying over the open sea, the engine coughed and fell silent. As the plane began to descend, the birds gathered closer than ever, not frantic, not aggressive—calm. Guiding. One by one, they shifted direction, and the pilot followed their path on instinct alone.
They led him to a narrow strip of land barely visible on any map. He landed hard, but alive.
When rescue arrived, a mechanic pointed quietly at the tail of the plane. Painted there, faded by time, was the emblem of a conservation unit the pilot had once flown for—years ago, before he’d quit after a crash that killed dozens of migratory birds.
The birds hadn’t been hunting him.
They had been guarding him—making sure he didn’t disappear the way they had.
That’s when the pilot cried.
