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Last Flight - text
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It was a birthday present.
The kite was old, like everything else his father bought for him. Vintage, that was the word he'd said it with pride. As if age had made it even better.
He'd bought the kite from a little chica back in the Amazon basin, the last time he'd checked on the Nanite Project. It'd been handmade, apparently, with plenty of care.
Noah ran his hands along the wood, letting his fingers fall into the holes time had torn into the kite fabric. The gift was a peace offering, he knew, his father making up for all the Lil' League Basketball games when he was nothing but an empty spot on the bleachers. Care and a single present, Noah figured, was pittance for all the birthdays the man had missed.
"You weren't there for me,"
"I'm sorry, son," His father ran tired fingers through his rapidly-greying hair. "I mean, with the Project taking up this much time, I..." He paused, catching himself. "Wait. This is your birthday, right? I-I didn't miss it, did I?"