Then his daughter, a software engineer in Cupertino, sent him the Mac. “Use it for retirement, Dad,” she’d said. “Paint. Write poetry.”

Then, it resolved.

For fifteen years, Sean had worked the busy transatlantic tracks at Shannon. His hands knew the feel of a plastic mouse on a cheap Windows terminal. His ears knew the crackle of a dozen languages fighting for space on the frequency. But an old knee injury had grounded him from the physical tower, and now he trained new recruits using a clunky, government-issued PC that wheezed every time it rendered a holding pattern over Heathrow.

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