The second familiar word comes from her mouth, and this time he doesn't bother hiding his reaction. It isn't sad, though - more wistful, a pleasant memory rather than one laden with grief. It calls back to puddled streets, to chattering voices, to kids whose faces and voices he can't remember, but whose fiery warmth he can still feel if he tries hard enough.

"Bloke by my old school had a jalebi cart. We used to go when we were bunking off class." On the way to or from the daytimers, pleasantly sloshed and sweating beneath track pants, his feet still thrumming with bhangra music. Back when he was in London with other kids who looked like him, who didn't call him names when they thought he couldn't hear. "It was shit. Health unit kept trying to shut him down, but he'd always pop back up."

He'd be in his nineties now, if he's still alive. The thought aches, and Charles brushes it away.

"My mum was from India," he adds, a shred of context for why he's sharing this. "She sounded a bit like you. The accent."