Walking Among Clouds
A fine rain drizzled from the grey sky. Daniel turned his face upwards, and his skin was instantly dusted with a mist of water. He drew in a deep breath, savouring the damp air. Behind him, the prison gates clanged shut with a metallic groan. Adjusting the strap of the duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he strode quickly along the high brick wall.
***
Two and a half years earlier
Daniel drove through the city, gripping the wheel tightly, trying to smother the irritation and anger simmering inside him. Where had the love gone? Why had he and his wife stopped understanding each other? On the passenger seat, his abandoned phone trilled insistently, the ringtone vibrating against the upholstery.
Suddenly, the ringing stopped.
“Good riddance,” Daniel muttered through clenched teeth.
But before he reached the next traffic light, the phone blared to life again.
“What now?” he snapped, snatching it up.
“Dan, I can’t do this anymore. You ran away—we never finished talking…” Lillian’s voice spilled through the speaker, picking up right where their argument at home had left off. Her words drilled into his skull, clouding his thoughts, making it hard to focus on the road. He wanted to scream, *Shut up!*
“Why aren’t you saying anything?” Lillian’s voice rose sharply.
“I know what you want to hear. Fine—we’re better off apart. No point torturing each other.” He slammed the brakes, barely stopping at the red light. The phone slipped from his fingers, and he barely caught it before it clattered to the floor.
“Daddy…?” His daughter’s trembling voice crackled through the line. “Don’t leave, Daddy!”
“Emily? Sweetheart, I’m not leaving, don’t cry. I’ll be home soon—”
A sharp honk blared behind him.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m going!” Daniel barked at the impatient driver.
He pressed the accelerator and tossed the phone aside, glancing briefly at the passenger seat. In that split second, the car jolted violently—something unseen blocked his path—then another impact from behind hurled him forward. The seatbelt bit into his chest as he lurched against the wheel.
“Damn it!” he spat, wrenching the door open.
On the rain-slicked tarmac, sprawled face-down just beyond his bumper, lay a teenage girl.
“Call an ambulance!” he shouted at the gathering crowd before kneeling beside her.
And just like that, his life—the one with a job, a wife, a daughter—was over.
Daniel was sentenced to two years. He considered it mercy. If someone had hit Emily like that, he’d have killed them with his bare hands.
Lillian filed for divorce immediately. Within six months, she remarried and moved with Emily to another city. Now he understood—she’d had a lover long before the accident. That was why she’d picked fights.
***
Daniel
He climbed to the fourth floor, ringing his own flat first, knowing no one waited inside. Then he pressed the neighbour’s buzzer.
“Daniel? You’re back!” The elderly woman gasped, clasping her hands. “You know your family’s gone, don’t you?”
“I know. Did they leave the keys?”
“Oh, yes, hold on—” She shuffled inside, returning with a keyring. “Here. Come by if you need anything.”
The flat greeted him with stifling silence. In Emily’s room, a forgotten teddy bear—one he’d given her on her fifth birthday—sat slumped on the bed. He pressed it to his face, inhaling the fading scent of his daughter, swallowing a groan.
He soaked in the bath, then collapsed into bed. When he woke, his watch read half six—only evening. He was ravenous.
No decent job would hire an ex-con. Daniel took a labourer’s post at a nearby bakery. It would do for now.
Before prison, he’d watched films, read news, messaged mates online. If he had a laptop, he could try freelance work. But Lillian had taken his.
He’d saved a decent nest egg back then—money Lillian never knew about. The car had drained his wages, and she’d scolded every extra expense. Rifling through his hiding spot, he grinned. Still there. Solution found. The next day, he bought a cheap laptop.
Now, after work, he’d browse job listings, scroll newsfeeds, even peek at socials. When he found Emily’s profile, his heart leaped. She looked so grown-up in the photos. He didn’t dare message—Lillian might forbid contact. But he checked daily, biding his time.
Then it hit him—find the girl he’d hit. Fifteen then, eighteen now. At the trial, she’d been a blur—mud-streaked, unconscious. Would he recognise her?
He searched her name, scanning profile pictures. One face seemed faintly familiar. A girl smiling stiffly, eyes solemn and sharp. Her page was private.
Daniel sent a request, spinning a lie about her resemblance to his estranged daughter—anything to hook her interest. He couldn’t exactly tell the truth. What could a thirty-two-year-old man say to an eighteen-year-old girl?
He spun more tales—recovery from an accident, relearning to walk. Wrote as “Dave,” an alias, seeding the account with old photos. What if her parents monitored her messages?
Three days later, she replied. Accepted. A selfie on her profile showed the edge of a wheelchair. No doubt—it was her.
Rosie wrote plainly about the crash, her paralysis—no rage, no blame. Said she worked online, writing articles. Made decent money.
“Brilliant! Could you teach me?”
Soon, returning from the bakery, he’d rush to the laptop, grinning at her replies. Within a month, they were friends, finding odd common ground. He dodged questions about the accident, claiming painful memories.
Rosie’s birthday invitation stunned him.
“Won’t your parents mind—a bloke my age visiting?”
“Don’t worry,” she typed airily. “Mum’s glad I’ve got a friend.”
***
Rosie
She’d been hunched over her computer for hours. Rewriting, tweaking—something felt off. The sentences jagged, words clumsy.
“Need a break? Tea?” Her mum hovered in the doorway.
“Yeah,” Rosie muttered, eyes glued to the screen.
Enough. She sipped tea, gnawing a biscuit, phrases still looping in her head. A Skype call jolted her—*Dave.*
She answered, camera on.
“Hey!” His voice burst through the speakers, warm and bright.
“Early today.” She smiled.
“If you could wish for anything—what would it be?”
“Can you grant wishes, then? Any limits?” She loved tripping him up.
“Within reason. So?”
“Walk on clouds. Stare at stars all night.”
A pause. Then—”Easy. Give me two days.”
He hung up. Rosie chuckled, returning to her article.
On her birthday, rain cleared by noon, sunlight peeking through. *A good sign,* she thought.
The doorbell startled her. Early for guests—though only Dave was coming.
Rolling into the hall, she froze. He was handsomer in person. Her mum hovered, wary.
Daniel’s pulse pounded—would she recognise him from court? But time had reshaped his face.
“Happy birthday.” He offered red roses.
She buried her nose in them, blushing.
“Ready?”
“For what?” she and her mum chorused.
“Walking on clouds.”
Her mum gasped.
“Don’t fret,” Daniel soothed. “Bundle her up.”
“But her chair—it’s not meant for rough ground.”
“I’ll manage. Won’t be long.” He wheeled her forward.
The lift descended smoothly. Outside, planks bridged the steps. He guided her down carefully.
Sunlight made Rosie squint.
“Ready to fly?” He pushed her through puddles reflecting the sky.
“I’m flying!” she cried, arms wide.
Her mum watched, tears spilling—joy, sorrow, hope tangled together.
“Faster!” Rosie gripped the armrests, knuckles whitening.
Wind whipped her hair as Daniel wove around cracks, laughter bubbling between them.
Back inside, breathless, he grinned.
“Now for the next surprise.”
He disappeared into Rosie’s room. Dusk had settled when he beckoned them in.
The ceiling blazed with stars—glowing, fading, swirling constellations.
“How…?” she whispered.
Daniel pointed out Orion, Cassiopeia, her neck craned in wonder.
“Had a mate help rig it. Not quite the real thing—but close?”
Rosie’s eyes shone.
“Need a proper chair. Then we’ll see real stars.”
He left soon after, her mother murmuring, “Kind man… just a bit old for you.”
“He’s just a friend.” But Rosie’s cheeks burned.
They messaged daily, until—
“The next time he visited, he brought a brand-new wheelchair—built for starlight—and a truth he could no longer hide, hoping she might one day forgive him.
