January 2026 Runner Up: The Kite

The kite had been in the shed since 1989, wrapped in yellowing newspaper and the smell of engine oil.

Dad said it was too windy. Mum said it was too late.

I was forty-two when I found it.

The string was brittle, the tail missing half its bows, but the paper still held its stubborn red. That afternoon the sky above the cliffs was reckless blue.

I ran.

For a moment nothing happened. Then the wind took it. The string burned my palms as it climbed, higher than roofs, higher than doubt.

Below, my father laughed.

And I realised he had never meant “no.” Only “not yet.”