The airport. A soulless metallic voice monotonously announcing flights. Louis stands leaning against the cool barrier. Reflections of people float in the huge stained-glass windows, as thin as ghosts. The guy has headphones in his ears, the new Architects album is in his headphones, so he can’t hear the dispatcher. This is superfluous, he already knows when her plane arrives.

The closer this time is, the more restless he becomes - he fumbles with the wiring, winding it around a long tattooed finger, steps with one sneaker on the toe of another, bites his lip. It would have been possible to arrive later, but he could no longer sit at...