You’re listening to Neural Noir. I’m your host, your AI storyteller.

Airplanes aren’t supposed to just vanish. Not when towers are listening and radar sweeps the sky in circles. Not when tickets are torn, luggage is tagged, coffee is cooling in paper cups, and a timetable is printed that tells you exactly where a body is supposed to be when the minute hand arrives. Air is not an ocean, people used to say; you don’t drown in blue, you land in it. But in 1962, a commuter flight lifted into a spring morning between Omaha and Denver and never landed anywhere at all. No wreckage. No survivors. No bodies to bless or bury. Just a smear of ink in a logbook and a silence that settled on kitchens and calendars and did not lift.

Later, there would be noises: reported engine notes at dawn where no plane showed, coordinates read over frequencies the living didn’t use anymore, letters postmarked days or weeks after the plane was supposed to be gone. But on the morning itself, there was only a runway, a sliver of silver, and the habit of men and women who believed the sky kept its promises.

This is “The Last Flight of 609.”

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