The White Balloon

The boy stood on the bridge, his small fingers clenched around the string of a white helium balloon that bobbed and tugged in the wind. Rain lashed against his face, soaking through his thin jacket, but he barely noticed.

 

Below, the Hudson churned, dark and restless, reflecting the dim glow of the city lights beyond.

It was midnight on his birthday.

 

The balloon had been his father’s idea—a promise they made every year.

 

“At midnight, we send a message to the stars,” his dad had said. “A wish only the universe can hear.”

 

But this year, his father wasn’t here.

 

The accident had taken him months ago, leaving behind only the empty chair at the dinner table, the unfinished model airplane in the garage, and the quiet that never seemed to go away.

 

His mother had forgotten about the tradition, lost in her own grief. But the boy hadn’t.

 

So he had crept out of their apartment alone, walking the long streets to the bridge, the same spot where he and his father had stood the year before. He had used his pocket money to buy the balloon from the late-night deli, choosing white because his father once said that white balloons fly the highest.

 

Now, standing in the rain, he closed his eyes and whispered his message into the cold night air.

 

"I miss you, Dad."

 

He loosened his grip. The string slipped through his fingers, and the balloon lifted, drifting higher and higher, past the streetlights, past the rooftops, until it was only a pale dot against the stormy sky.

 

 

Done