Henry nodded, but his gaze betrayed silent panic. Every sob from his daughter felt like a slap. Every scream, a defeat.
Then a voice rose from the back, clear and unexpected:
Everyone turned. There, standing in the aisle, was a Black teenager no older than sixteen, a worn backpack slung over his shoulder. Simple clothes, scuffed shoes. Yet in his eyes shone a strange, almost disarming confidence.
“My name’s Malik,” he said gently. “I’ve raised my little sister. I know what it’s like… let me try.”
Henry froze. Hand his baby to a stranger? The idea seemed insane. But the cries tore at his soul like knives, and he nodded.
Malik stepped forward, cradling the child with unexpected tenderness.
But what Malik dared to do next was so incredible that even the skeptics were moved…
“Shh, my princess…” he murmured.
His voice became a lullaby, a fragile, soothing song. Magic worked: Nora’s tears stopped, her clenched fists relaxed, and soon she was asleep against him, peaceful as if the chaos had never existed.
Silence fell, dense and unreal.
Henry sighed, torn between relief and amazement.
“How did you do it?” he asked softly, watching the boy rock his daughter as if she were his own.
Malik offered a discreet smile.
“Sometimes a baby doesn’t need anything complicated. She just wants to feel safe.”
With the plane calm again, Henry invited him to sit nearby. Between them, Nora drifted peacefully to sleep, her eyelashes fluttering with her dreams. In a low voice, Malik confided.
He had grown up in a modest neighborhood in Philadelphia, raised by a courageous mother who worked tirelessly in a small café. Money was always tight, but he had an innate passion for numbers. While other children played outside, he filled worn notebooks with formulas and equations.
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