80: Sky Angel

He took the pink envelope, tucked it into his satchel, and began the climb up Foggy Hill. The wind bit through his coat. His cane sank into mud. Halfway up, his knee seized with a pain so sharp he had to sit on a damp boulder and breathe.

But then he remembered: eighty wasn’t the end. Eighty was the number of his most important flight. Sky Angel 80 didn’t turn back. sky angel 80

Today was Thursday.