StoriesBlog Today is different. Today, she’s getting a familiarization flight in an F-22 Raptor, the same type of aircraft her mother flew, the pinnacle of fighter technology. The pilot accompanying her is Reaper 2, now a full Colonel, who has guided her every step of the way from that terrifying emergency landing to this moment.
She approaches the F-22, and without thinking, without planning, her hand reaches out to touch the left wing. She whispers: “Fly safe, come home.” Then her finger traces a figure-8 in the air—infinity.
Reaper 2 watches with tears in his eyes. “She’s in you,” he says quietly. “Every bit of her.”
They climb into the cockpit, Ava in the back seat, not flying today, just experiencing. The canopy closes. The engines spool up with a scream of power that vibrates through her entire body. And then they’re moving, accelerating, the runway blurring past.
The nose lifts. The ground falls away. They’re flying.
At 40,000 feet, with the earth curved below and the sky deep blue above, Reaper 2’s voice comes through the intercom. “How does it feel?”
Ava looks out at the impossible view, feeling the power of the aircraft, understanding what her mother loved so much. “Like coming home,” she says.
“Your mother said the same thing the first time she flew one of these. She said the sky was home.”
They fly for an hour—not combat maneuvers, just flight. Beautiful, pure flight. The way humans were never meant to fly but learn to anyway. The way her mother flew. The way Ava will fly.
When they land, there’s a small group waiting. Other F-22 pilots. Veterans who flew with Ghost Rider. General Chen, who has followed Ava’s progress like a proud grandfather.
And standing slightly apart, a news crew. Because some stories don’t fade. Some stories live forever. The reporter approaches as Ava removes her helmet.
“Ava Morrison, five years ago you saved 312 lives. Today you flew in an F-22 for the first time. How does it feel to follow in your mother’s footsteps?”
Ava considers the question. She’s learned to handle media with grace, to speak truthfully without bragging, to honor her mother without living in her shadow.
“My mother didn’t want me to follow in her footsteps,” Ava says. “She wanted me to fly my own path. But she taught me that flying isn’t just about the aircraft; it’s about courage, skill, and serving something bigger than yourself. That’s what I’m learning. That’s what Ghost Rider really means.”
“Do you plan to become a fighter pilot like her?”
“I plan to become the best pilot I can be,” Ava says. “If that leads me to fighters, great. If it leads me somewhere else, that’s great too. What matters is that I honor her by being excellent at whatever I do.”
The reporter smiles. “Five years ago, you were declared dead. Today, you’re very much alive and pursuing your mother’s legacy. What would you say to people facing impossible situations?”
Ava thinks about that moment in seat 14C, when she had to choose between hiding and acting. She thinks about climbing into that captain’s seat, terrified but certain. She thinks about her mother, making the impossible choice to save her daughter.
“I’d say that ‘impossible’ is just another word for ‘nobody’s done it yet,'” she says. “My mother did impossible things every time she flew. Uncle James did an impossible thing by keeping me safe and trained for five years. I did an impossible thing landing that plane.”
“But none of it felt impossible in the moment; it just felt necessary.” She looks directly at the camera. “So if you’re facing something impossible, ask yourself: is it really impossible, or just necessary? Because if it’s necessary, if lives depend on it, if it matters enough, then you find a way. You do what needs to be done.”
The interview ends. The cameras turn off. The reporter thanks her and leaves. Ava stands on the tarmac, looking at the F-22 that brought her home, at the sky where her mother lived, at the future stretching ahead.
Colonel Reed approaches. “You handled that well.”
“Uncle James taught me to speak truth simply,” Ava says. “He said Mom never bragged, never made it about herself. She just flew and let her skills speak.”
“She did. And so do you.” He pauses. “Two more years until the Academy. Then four years there. Then flight training. It’s a long road ahead.”
“I know,” Ava says. “But Mom always said the best things require patience and dedication. She spent 10,000 hours becoming Ghost Rider. I can spend 10,000 hours becoming whatever I’m meant to be.”
“And what’s that?”
Ava smiles. “I don’t know yet. But I’ll find out in the sky.”
This story is dedicated to every person who has been told they’re too young, too small, or too inexperienced to do something that matters. Ava Morrison is fictional, but the truth she represents is real: knowledge matters. Preparation matters. Courage matters.
The technical details of aviation in this story are as accurate as possible, though simplified for readability. Real commercial pilot incapacitation protocols exist, though they’ve never been tested with a child pilot. The F-22 Raptor is a real aircraft, and its pilots really do carry call signs with pride and honor.
Ghost Rider flies eternal, not as a specific person, but as an ideal. The idea that excellence, courage, and dedication can transcend death, can pass from parent to child, from mentor to student, from generation to generation. Wherever you are, whatever impossible thing you’re facing, remember Ava Morrison. Remember that impossible is just another word for “not yet.”
Fly safe. Come home. Make some sky.