☕ Coffee and Quiet with Derek Wolf
The Sky Between Them
Morning opened soft over the airfield.
The sky above Oahu was pale and endless, the kind of blue that feels like invitation and warning at once.
Two sisters stood side by side on the edge of that invitation, flight suits zipped, hair tucked under helmets, eyes lifted toward the small white plane that waited at the end of the strip.
They had joked on the drive over.
Laughed too loudly.
Shared nervous looks disguised as excitement.
Now, the closer they came to the moment itself, silence began to do the talking.
The younger one paced.
Her body carried restless energy, the kind that wanted to rush past fear by outrunning it.
She checked the straps twice, then checked again, as if certainty could be built through repetition.
The older sister stayed still.
Her eyes moved between the horizon and the parachute folded neatly beside her feet.
She had planned this day for months, but planning does not quiet the body.
Her stomach felt light, her breath uneven.
Courage, she thought, was never the absence of fear.
It was conversation with it.
The instructor gave a short nod.
“Five minutes.”
The wind shifted.
A gull crossed the field and vanished into the glare of morning.
They climbed into the plane and sat facing the open door.
The air inside smelled of fuel and salt.
The sound of the engine swallowed everything.
Words had no room left between them, so they held hands instead.
The world tilted as the plane lifted.
Below them, the island spread out like memory.
Green valleys, ribbons of road, glints of water catching light.
The higher they rose, the smaller everything looked.
Houses, cars, plans.
All the small things that once felt like anchors began to shrink to dots.
The instructor motioned.
“Time.”
He slid the door open.
Wind roared through the cabin, wild and endless.
The younger sister moved first.
She had promised she would.
She pressed her palms against the frame, looked once toward her sister, and smiled the kind of smile that trembles but still says yes.
Then she stepped forward and vanished into the blue.
The world filled with sound and motion.
Then nothing but sky.
The older sister watched her fall, the parachute still closed, the body spinning like a thought leaving the mind.
Her heart leapt after her.
Instinct followed fear with no space for logic.
The instructor touched her shoulder.
“Your turn.”
She hesitated, one breath, maybe two, then leaned forward and let gravity take the rest.
The wind hit her face, hard and clean.
Every muscle in her body braced.
Then the bracing broke.
The noise became music.
The fall became flight.
The mind went quiet in a way she had never known on the ground.
She could see her sister below her now, parachute open, red and gold against the blue.
The canopy moved like breath.
For a few seconds, they drifted near each other, two small forms suspended in light.
The older sister reached out an arm as if she could touch the air between them.
The distance was small, yet sacred.
They were together and separate at once.
Held by the same invisible force, each trusting her own cord, her own timing, her own yes.
Time loosened its grip.
The fear that had felt like weight became lift.
The earth below looked less like danger and more like belonging.
The parachute above her opened with a soft crack.
The noise turned to silence.
The descent began slow and certain.
Below her, the world returned to shape.
Fields.
Roads.
The shimmer of water.
She could hear her own breath again.
She laughed without sound.
A pure, quiet joy that rose from somewhere deep.
She saw her sister land first.
Knees bending, balance regained, arms up, then arms open.
The younger one turned and looked up, eyes bright, waiting.
A few seconds later, the older sister touched down.
Grass bent beneath her feet.
For a heartbeat she stood still, feeling the body return to gravity.
The instructor ran forward, steadying her harness.
“You are good,” he said.
She nodded, unable to form words.
Then she looked toward her sister.
The younger one’s face was radiant, wet with tears and laughter all mixed together.
They met halfway across the field and fell into each other’s arms, the kind of embrace that holds more than relief.
It held recognition, the quiet awareness of what they had both just done.
Neither spoke for a long time.
The sky above them went on being sky, unbothered, endless, blue.
Later, they sat on the hood of the car watching the next group rise into the air.
Their helmets rested on the ground, their hair wild from wind and freedom.
A breeze moved across the field carrying the faint scent of jet fuel and grass.
The younger one finally whispered, “I never thought I could do that.”
The older smiled.
“You always could. You just needed to remember.”
They sat in silence, legs swinging, eyes turned upward again.
Somewhere between the climb and the fall, they had both found a new shape of trust.
Not the kind built on control, but the kind born of surrender.
The kind that says, I trust the air to hold me.
I trust myself to meet it.
Trust had changed its definition.
It no longer meant safety.
It meant partnership with uncertainty.
The instructor walked past carrying two folded parachutes.
“Good flight,” he said.
The sisters smiled and nodded.
He could not have known that his lesson had gone far beyond the sky.
They would remember that moment for years, not as thrill or risk, but as arrival.
The day they touched the sky and came back to earth lighter, rearranged, quietly awake.
The Truth Beneath
Real courage is not found in the leap.
It lives in the breath before it, that silent pause when the body knows and the mind has not yet agreed.
Life gives us thousands of small skies to step into.
Each asks the same question.
Will you grip tighter, or trust the air to hold you.
The fall is never punishment.
It is how we learn that surrender can carry us farther than control ever could.
Some rise by planning.
Others rise by feeling.
All rise by letting go.
Stories written in the quiet hours.
Derek Wolf.
“The Truth Beneath”
Links to add to the bottom of stories
The Sky Between Them
Morning opened soft over the airfield.
The sky above Oahu was pale and endless, the kind of blue that feels like invitation and warning at once.
Two sisters stood side by side on the edge of that invitation, flight suits zipped, hair tucked under helmets, eyes lifted toward the small white plane that waited at the end of the strip.
They had joked on the drive over.
Laughed too loudly.
Shared nervous looks disguised as excitement.
Now, the closer they came to the moment itself, silence began to do the talking.
The younger one paced.
Her body carried restless energy, the kind that wanted to rush past fear by outrunning it.
She checked the straps twice, then checked again, as if certainty could be built through repetition.
The older sister stayed still.
Her eyes moved between the horizon and the parachute folded neatly beside her feet.
She had planned this day for months, but planning does not quiet the body.
Her stomach felt light, her breath uneven.
Courage, she thought, was never the absence of fear.
It was conversation with it.
The instructor gave a short nod.
“Five minutes.”
The wind shifted.
A gull crossed the field and vanished into the glare of morning.
They climbed into the plane and sat facing the open door.
The air inside smelled of fuel and salt.
The sound of the engine swallowed everything.
Words had no room left between them, so they held hands instead.
The world tilted as the plane lifted.
Below them, the island spread out like memory.
Green valleys, ribbons of road, glints of water catching light.
The higher they rose, the smaller everything looked.
Houses, cars, plans.
All the small things that once felt like anchors began to shrink to dots.
The instructor motioned.
“Time.”
He slid the door open.
Wind roared through the cabin, wild and endless.
The younger sister moved first.
She had promised she would.
She pressed her palms against the frame, looked once toward her sister, and smiled the kind of smile that trembles but still says yes.
Then she stepped forward and vanished into the blue.
The world filled with sound and motion.
Then nothing but sky.
The older sister watched her fall, the parachute still closed, the body spinning like a thought leaving the mind.
Her heart leapt after her.
Instinct followed fear with no space for logic.
The instructor touched her shoulder.
“Your turn.”
She hesitated, one breath, maybe two, then leaned forward and let gravity take the rest.
The wind hit her face, hard and clean.
Every muscle in her body braced.
Then the bracing broke.
The noise became music.
The fall became flight.
The mind went quiet in a way she had never known on the ground.
She could see her sister below her now, parachute open, red and gold against the blue.
The canopy moved like breath.
For a few seconds, they drifted near each other, two small forms suspended in light.
The older sister reached out an arm as if she could touch the air between them.
The distance was small, yet sacred.
They were together and separate at once.
Held by the same invisible force, each trusting her own cord, her own timing, her own yes.
Time loosened its grip.
The fear that had felt like weight became lift.
The earth below looked less like danger and more like belonging.
The parachute above her opened with a soft crack.
The noise turned to silence.
The descent began slow and certain.
Below her, the world returned to shape.
Fields.
Roads.
The shimmer of water.
She could hear her own breath again.
She laughed without sound.
A pure, quiet joy that rose from somewhere deep.
She saw her sister land first.
Knees bending, balance regained, arms up, then arms open.
The younger one turned and looked up, eyes bright, waiting.
A few seconds later, the older sister touched down.
Grass bent beneath her feet.
For a heartbeat she stood still, feeling the body return to gravity.
The instructor ran forward, steadying her harness.
“You are good,” he said.
She nodded, unable to form words.
Then she looked toward her sister.
The younger one’s face was radiant, wet with tears and laughter all mixed together.
They met halfway across the field and fell into each other’s arms, the kind of embrace that holds more than relief.
It held recognition, the quiet awareness of what they had both just done.
Neither spoke for a long time.
The sky above them went on being sky, unbothered, endless, blue.
Later, they sat on the hood of the car watching the next group rise into the air.
Their helmets rested on the ground, their hair wild from wind and freedom.
A breeze moved across the field carrying the faint scent of jet fuel and grass.
The younger one finally whispered, “I never thought I could do that.”
The older smiled.
“You always could. You just needed to remember.”
They sat in silence, legs swinging, eyes turned upward again.
Somewhere between the climb and the fall, they had both found a new shape of trust.
Not the kind built on control, but the kind born of surrender.
The kind that says, I trust the air to hold me.
I trust myself to meet it.
Trust had changed its definition.
It no longer meant safety.
It meant partnership with uncertainty.
The instructor walked past carrying two folded parachutes.
“Good flight,” he said.
The sisters smiled and nodded.
He could not have known that his lesson had gone far beyond the sky.
They would remember that moment for years, not as thrill or risk, but as arrival.
The day they touched the sky and came back to earth lighter, rearranged, quietly awake.
The Truth Beneath
Real courage is not found in the leap.
It lives in the breath before it, that silent pause when the body knows and the mind has not yet agreed.
Life gives us thousands of small skies to step into.
Each asks the same question.
Will you grip tighter, or trust the air to hold you.
The fall is never punishment.
It is how we learn that surrender can carry us farther than control ever could.
Some rise by planning.
Others rise by feeling.
All rise by letting go.
Stories written in the quiet hours.
Derek Wolf.
“The Truth Beneath”
If this story spoke to you, you may also enjoy