Curatedstory # 1 the flight that never landed

It was 2:13 AM over the open ocean when the seatbelt sign chimed.

I checked the cabin—dim blue lighting, silent engine hum, rows of sleeping passengers. Nothing out of the ordinary. But then I noticed Row 27.

A man sat in seat 27A wearing an old-fashioned gray suit. His skin was unnaturally pale, staring motionless through the window into the pitch-black sky.

I pulled out the paper passenger manifest clip-board and checked the grid.
27A — VACANT.

Unease settled in my chest. I walked down the aisle and stood beside him. "Sir?"
He slowly turned his head. His eyes were hollow, but he offered a faint, unsettling smile.
"Coffee, please," he murmured.

My hands trembled as I poured a cup from the galley and brought it back. "Here you go, sir."
He didn't reach for it. Instead, he leaned closer and whispered, "Please tell the captain we’re almost there."
"Almost where?"
He pointed toward the black void outside. "Home."

Before I could answer, the interphone beeped sharply. I rushed forward to the cockpit. The captain looked pale, pointing a shaking finger at the radar display. A solitary radar blip was trailing directly behind us. No transponder. No flight identification.
"It’s been tailing us since Manila," the captain whispered, his voice cracking. "I ran the flight registration... that aircraft crashed twenty-seven years ago."
Cold panic set in. I turned and ran back into the cabin to double-check 27A.

The seat was empty. The gray-suited man was gone.
I stepped closer to the window. Pressed against the glass from the inside was a clear, frost-bitten handprint.
"Miss..."

The voice whispered directly beside my ear. I spun around. The man in the suit was standing inches from me, his face now streaked with dried blood and fractured bone.
"You forgot something," he smiled.
"What?" I gasped, backing away.
"Me."

Suddenly, every single passenger in the cabin opened their eyes in unison. Dozens of pale, lifeless faces slowly turned toward me in absolute silence.
Terrified, I looked down at the manifest in my hands. The printed ink began to bleed and shift before my eyes. The header changed from PASSENGER MANIFEST to CERTIFICATE OF DEATH.

There was a photo attached to the top corner. My face stared back at me.
Cause of death: Aircraft Accident.
Date of death: September 9, 1999.

The overhead cabin lights plunged into pitch darkness.
In the pitch black, the seatbelt sign dinged one last time, and a voice whispered against my neck:
"Welcome home."