Reading Passage

At the far end of the airport terminal, Anya watched rain stitch silver lines across the windows. The departure board flickered, paused, then announced another delay. Around her, people shifted in their seats and checked their phones. Anya’s little brother, Oliver, pressed his forehead against the glass. Beyond it, the planes waited beneath a sky the colour of old tin. “Perhaps they’re gathering courage,” Anya said. Oliver gave a doubtful snort. “Planes don’t get nervous.” “Maybe not,” she replied, “but that one looks as if it’s holding its breath.” A gust rattled the windows. Oliver stepped back, and Anya noticed his hands tighten around the paper model plane he had folded on the journey. She had teased him about bringing it, but now its crooked wings seemed braver than either of them felt. Then the rain softened. A strip of pale light opened between the clouds, laying a bright path across the wet runway. The board chimed: their gate was open. Oliver tucked the paper plane carefully into his pocket. Anya stood, suddenly lighter. The real aircraft was still enormous, and the journey was still unknown, but the two of them walked towards the gate together.

Language Analysis