There is a specific, peculiar exhaustion that settles into your bones after an international flight. You’ve navigated the labyrinth of Heathrow’s Terminal 5, wrestled your suitcase off the carousel, and spent forty minutes in the sterile limbo of the underground. By the time you emerge into the crisp London air at Surrey Quays, the grandeur of your trip has evaporated, replaced by a singular, primal desire: to be home.
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The clock on the wall of the Vauxhall flat reads 3:45 AM. Outside, the city is caught in that strange, suspended animation known only to Londoners—the silence between the last stragglers of the night and the first rattle of the morning commute.
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