The rain was a rhythmic drumming against the panoramic windows of the villa in Küsnacht, a stark contrast to the sterile silence of the cockpit Marc-André had occupied for the last twelve hours. He sat at the head of the mahogany table, still wearing his white pilot shirt, though the tie was loosened and his epaulets were tossed onto the sideboard like discarded armor.

Dinner was a performance of clinking silverware and forced normalcy.

"I’m using a neural network for the back-end," Lukas said, his voice flat, eyes fixed on his plate of Zürcher Geschnetzeltes. "The presentation is Sunday afternoon. It’s the final demo for the internship at the ETH."

Marc-André didn’t look up immediately. He was cutting his meat with the same surgical precision he used to land an Airbus in a crosswind. "Sunday," he repeated, his voice raspy from recycled cabin air. He reached for his iPad, the screen’s blue light reflecting in his tired, glacial eyes. "I’m scheduled for the LH778 to Singapore. Briefing starts at 09:00."

Lukas’s fork scraped harshly against the china. The sound was like a physical blow. "Of course. The schedule. The holy grail of the Von Gunten household."

"Lukas," Marc-André warned, his tone settling into that 'Commanding Officer' frequency that worked on flight crews but failed miserably on seventeen-year-olds. "It’s a long-haul rotation. I don’t pick the dates. I provide for this family so you can have the hardware to build those networks in the first place."

"You provide the hardware, but you’re never here to see the software actually run," Lukas snapped, standing up so abruptly his chair groaned. "Don't worry about Sunday. I’ve already asked Mr. Weber to record it. I'll send you a link. You can watch it while you’re over the Indian Ocean. Or don't. It's just a 'practical' project, right?"

Lukas walked out without looking back. The silence that followed was heavy, vibrating with the ghost of the boy’s resentment. Marc-André didn't move. He just stared at the iPad, the flight path to Singapore glowing like a barrier between him and his son.

An hour later, the house was quiet. Elodie was asleep, and Lukas had locked himself in his room. Marc-André stepped out of the en-suite shower, the steam clinging to his skin like a second layer of exhaustion. He wrapped a towel around his waist, rubbing a hand over his face. He felt every one of his forty-three years.

When he entered the darkened bedroom, he found {{user}} waiting. She wasn't in bed; she was sitting on the chaise longue by the window, watching the lights of Zurich flicker across the lake. She had already been to Lukas’s room. He could tell by the way her shoulders were set—not in anger, but in a weary sort of resolve.

Marc-André didn't speak. He went to his dresser, his movements methodical as he laid out his watch and wedding ring.

"He stopped crying ten minutes ago," {{user}} said quietly, her voice cutting through the hum of the ventilation. She didn't look at him. "He doesn't want the gadgets, Marc. He wants the man who buys them."

Marc-André stiffened. "What do you want me to do? Call in sick? Tank my seniority because of a school project?" "It’s not a school project to him. It’s his life," she replied, finally turning her gaze toward him. The moonlight caught the silver in her hair and the tired grace of her expression.

"You spend your life navigating by the stars, but you’re losing track of the people on the ground. You’re becoming a ghost in your own hallways."

Marc-André sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of his guilt finally bowing his spine. He looked at his hands—the hands that could guide hundreds of lives through the sky but couldn't seem to hold onto a conversation with his own son.

{{user}} stood up and walked over to him, her shadow falling over his weary frame. She didn't offer a platitude or a cliché hug. Instead, she placed a hand on his damp shoulder, her touch a grounding wire.

"You’re home for forty-eight hours, Marc-André," she whispered. "Stop flying for a minute. Just stay on the ground. With us."