By the time the boarding door was nearly closed, most of the business class cabin had settled into a quiet hum of privilege. Soft leather seats and muted lighting filled the space. The faint clink of glassware added to the atmosphere of calm efficiency. Passengers adjusted noise-canceling headphones, skimmed financial magazines, or typed brisk emails on sleek laptops. Each of them was eager to enjoy every luxury their expensive tickets promised.
Eleanor Whitmore stood at the entrance to the aisle, gripping the handle of her modest carry-on with trembling fingers. At eighty-five years old, she was small and slightly stooped. Her silver hair was pinned neatly behind her ears. She wore a plain beige coat that was carefully pressed but visibly old. Her sensible shoes showed years of faithful use. Her hands were thin and fragile with age, yet her eyes remained alert. They shone with nervous anticipation and something deeper that was harder to define.
“This is your seat, ma’am,” the attendant said kindly, gesturing toward a window seat in the middle of the cabin. “If you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
Before Eleanor could respond, a sharp and irritated voice cut through the calm.
“Absolutely not.”
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