The First Tower Windows — Under the runway’s hush-hush moon, Nico tucked a thimble of spare lantern oil into his coat. Read the full story →
Under the runway’s hush-hush moon, Nico tucked a thimble of spare lantern oil into his coat. The airport was saving every drop for fog season, but he wanted one private glow for the dark walk home past the silent gates. Then something tapped the glass of the empty departures hall: tik-tik-tik, softer than rain. A moth no bigger than his thumb stood there in a pilot cap made of leaf, smelling faintly of dust and peppermint.
“My passengers are asleep in the milkweed mailbag,” she whispered, “and I can’t find the safe wind.” Nico looked toward the black runways, the sleeping jets, the high tower with its narrow dark room. Nobody would know if he kept his oil. Nobody would know if he gave it away, either. He climbed the tower stairs, poured his thimble into a lamp, and set it in the widest window. The glass shone gold. The moth tipped her cap and steered by that square of light.
By morning, the airport chief found tiny silver wing dust on the sill and ordered windows all around the tower, so helpers could shine directions into the night. Ever since, airport towers wear bright glass on every side—because one secret lamp showed a stranger the safe wind.
