The departure hall was quiet.
Floors polished to brilliance by years of heels hurrying across its grey expanse did little to reduce the cold impersonal glare of the multitude of lights. The hall offered scant warmth and, from the demeanour of those who sat with in it, less cheer. In constrast to the hustle and energy of most of establishments of its ilk, this was the very picture of lifelessness. In corners men spoke in hushed tones, discussing things best not overheard by the uninvolved. A grunt of agreement to a whispered proposal or a bitter laugh from weary traveller were the only sounds to intrude upon the silence. The majority of the denizens of the airport were closely watching the clock, each tick bringing them a step towards their escape.
The man had sat, willing himself to sleep, but slumber would not come to him in this place. Unendingly tended by servants, cleaning and replacing the lights as they faltered, the hall was free of all shadows. His wonder at first entering the hall, which had prompted him to privately name it the Court of Light, had long since passed. After this long bathed in the unceasing colour-sapping brilliance he had come to realise its true name, Hell.
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