The sky was always the same. It was the same yesterday, it was the same today, and it would be no different tomorrow. In the harbor, where the smells of steam and oil mingled, there were footsteps coming and going dozens of times a day, and the automated voice announcing, ‘Ten minutes until takeoff.’ For Lilian, daily life was like a highly calculated formula. Always the same time, the same island, the same route. As long as the departure point and destination remained unchanged, people were merely beings who boarded and disembarked like cargo. She didn't remember their faces, nor did she ask them anything. Responding to every passenger was less important than a single screw in the cockpit, and the pitch of the engine sound held more meaning. The same speed, the same altitude for everyone. Lilian’s world was composed of order without exception.

That day should have been the same.