**James’ Longtime Wish**
Ever since James was a boy, he dreamed of flying. Not in a plane, not even in a hot air balloon—he wanted to fly himself, like the birds he watched from the hilltop behind his house. While other kids were chasing soccer balls or video games, James was building wings out of cardboard and string, climbing trees, and jumping off low roofs (much to his mother’s horror). His dreams were dismissed by most people as childhood fantasy, but to James, the wish never left.
Years passed, but the dream stayed. He studied physics and engineering, not because someone told him to, but because he wanted to understand flight on the deepest level. He devoured books on aerodynamics, read about Icarus and Da Vinci’s flying machines, and watched documentaries on every form of human flight ever attempted. While others joked or doubted, James worked—quietly, persistently.
By the time he turned thirty, James had built more prototypes than he could count—some successful, most not. He failed often. There were broken motors, wings that wouldn’t lift, crashes that left him bruised and sore. But each failure taught him something new. His tiny garage turned into a workshop filled with blueprints, wires, and scattered mechanical parts. He wasn’t trying to make money, nor did he want fame. What he wanted—what he’d *always* wanted—was to soar through the sky on his own power.
People didn’t understand. His friends had long stopped asking about his “flying machine.” His parents worried he was wasting his life on a dream that would never come true. He’d sacrificed relationships, passed up promotions, and even sold his car to buy better materials. But James never doubted. He knew that true dreams—the kind you carry in your soul—are worth everything.
Then came the breakthrough.
It was a chilly morning in early spring. James had designed a new lightweight suit made from carbon fiber and small electric turbines, inspired by both bird anatomy and drone technology. He called it the “Feather Frame.” After months of testing in secret, he believed it was ready. He drove out to an abandoned quarry, where the cliffs offered a perfect test platform. There was no audience, no camera crew—just James, the wind, and the clear blue sky.
With a pounding heart, he stepped to the edge. The suit whirred to life, the turbines humming like distant bees. He took a breath, whispered a small prayer, and jumped.
For a split second, he felt that old fear—the one that says, “You’ll fall.” But then… lift.
The turbines caught the wind perfectly, adjusting with every tilt of his arms. The Feather Frame responded like an extension of his own body. And suddenly, impossibly, James was *flying*.
Not falling. Not gliding. Flying.
He soared across the quarry, heart thundering, eyes wide. The wind roared in his ears, but inside he felt nothing but silence and awe. He dipped, rose, turned—laughing, crying, overwhelmed. Thirty years of dreaming, failing, building, believing—and now it was real.
When he finally landed, knees shaking, the sun was beginning to set. James looked out over the horizon, tears on his cheeks, and whispered, “I did it.”
News would come later. Eventually, the world would know. He’d be invited to speak, to share his invention. There would be headlines, maybe patents. But none of that mattered to James.
Because long before the world cared, he had a wish. And he’d never let it go.
And now, with the wind still brushing his face, he had only one thought left:
What if this is just the beginning?
