Then, from behind him, a soft voice spoke:
“Excuse me, sir… I think I can help.”
Henry looked up, startled.
Standing in the aisle was a Black teenager, maybe sixteen, with a faded backpack slung over one shoulder. His sneakers were scuffed, his T-shirt simple, but his posture carried a quiet confidence. His eyes—steady, calm—were the kind you could lean on without realizing it.
A ripple of surprise passed through the cabin. What could this boy possibly do that the billionaire couldn’t?
“My name is Mason,” he said, voice gentle but sure. “I’ve taken care of my little sister since she was born. I know how to soothe a baby… if you’re okay with me trying.”
Henry hesitated.
Control was his armor. His certainty. His identity.
But Nora’s cries pierced straight through him, tearing at the grief he refused to face.
So he nodded.
Mason stepped forward, slow and respectful. He spoke to the baby in a soft whisper:
“Shh, little one… you’re okay,” he murmured as he began to rock her gently, humming a simple melody—quiet, rhythmic, full of warmth.
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