[PRESS START!] Stranded in an airport on Christmas Eve…

‘It’s not snow, honey, it’s ash.’

You crack open an eyelid. Right across from you, huddled up in the green plastic seating, a young mom is running her hand through her kid’s hair. He’s not that old, maybe three or four, and neither’s she – tired but pretty, early twenties, hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Dark eyelashes and pale skin. Laugh lines just starting to show.

Her kid’s snuggled into her lap like it’s his favorite place in the world, like a dog curled up right by the fire, and something aches for a moment inside your chest.

‘But it looks like…’ the kid begins, sleepily, before breaking off into a huge yawn. It almost seems too big for his body. ‘Snow,’ he finishes, nestling further into his mom’s knee. ‘What’s ash?’

His mom catches the yawn, has to stifle it in the crook of her arm. She looks up, just for a moment – and your eyes meet by accident. A furtive smile passes between you.

‘It’s from the volcano, honey.’ The young mom brushes a loose strand of hair out of her kid’s eyes. ‘When it went up, this great big cloud of… well, I don’t know what, exactly, blew into the sky. Bits of rock, I guess. All burned up in the lava. Now it’s just flakes of ash.’

‘Like snowflakes,’ the kid says, after a moment. His mom nods, her whole body bobbing, and the kid seems to consider it.

‘So it’s hot snow?’ He yawns again. ‘Like lava? Like in Star Wars?’

‘Mmm… not exactly.’ You can hear how tired she is, and for a second, you consider saying something; talking to the kid about Star Wars, giving his mom a break. But then she seems to brighten. ‘You know how Daddy makes the fire? You help him bring in the newspaper? It’s like… when he cleans the grate, when you watch him get it ready. That gray stuff, the bits you throw away. That’s ash, honey.’

The kid blinks twice, head lolling back. ‘Kay,’ he mutters, staring up at the great glass dome. ‘When we going home? When’s Daddy coming?’

His mom gives you a rueful glance. ‘Soon, honey. Soon.’

*

Out of all the ways you could have chosen to spend Christmas morning, you think to yourself, stranded at an airport has to be pretty fucking far down the bottom of the list.

The young mom is already nodding off into her shoulder, and you don’t blame her. It’s late, past two a.m, and the terminal is deserted – a few weary-looking, rumpled business travelers are dotted around the other plastic seats, and a young couple are huddled up close to the wall, charging their iPhones. But apart from that… no one. Vast stretches of gleaming white floor. An abandoned magazine stand. A steel-shuttered burger joint.

You’re just considering the merits of getting up and stealing a magazine when there’s an enormous crash from behind.

Everybody turns – even the kid, blinking hazily over his mom’s shoulder. There, by the escalators, a slim figure is struggling to pick up two massive suitcases – and as you watch, she drops the biggest one again. This time it bursts open, sending clothes, shoes and toiletries spinning out across the polished floor.

You stand up at exactly the same time as the young couple. They catch your eye, the guy grinning awkwardly, and together, you start walking towards the gate.

‘Hey,’ the guy says in a friendly voice, as you pass the magazine stand. ‘Merry fuckin’ Christmas, huh?’ His girlfriend shakes her head, giving you a tired smile. ‘So who d’you think that is? I thought we were on our own out here… I mean, you’re not telling me there are still planes flying out in this.’ He jerks a thumb up at the glass ceiling, with its thick grey blanket of ash.

You shrug. ‘I don’t know, man. Maybe she got stuck in the bathroom.’ The newcomer’s still some way off, scrabbling around on the floor for her clothes.

‘Could be a private jet that got down,’ the girl volunteers. You both glance back at her. ‘What? Do you see any other passengers?’

You all consider that for a moment. ‘Maybe she’s famous,’ the guy says hopefully. ‘Or royal – maybe she’s royalty! That’d be cool, actually. If we help her with her stuff, maybe she’ll flick us a diamond or something.’ He stoops to pick up a stray plastic packet that’s rolled to a stop towards you.

His girlfriend gives an amused snort. ‘Wow, there’s that spirit of Christmas. Also, I don’t think she’s going to tip you for picking up her tampons.’ She swipes the pink plastic packet out of her boyfriend’s hands.

The guy blinks comically, and you laugh. ‘To be fair, it does look like one of those things they hand out as party favors. What’re they called? Streamers?’

‘Thank you,’ the guy says, running his hand through his hair with some dignity. ‘See, Em? It’s a mistake anyone could have made. I also happen to think it strongly resembles Halloween candy.’

The girl smiles. ‘Just do the poor girl a favor and neither blow nor chew on her sanitary products.’ She scoops the packet out of his hand and stows it discreetly in her hoodie.

You’ve almost crossed the terminal now, and the woman on the floor looks up gratefully as you approach. ‘Thank you,’ she begins, sweeping the hair out of her eyes, ‘I’m so sorry, it just exploded everywhere…’

The rest of the words melt off into indistinguishable fuzz.

Because on her hands and knees, staring up at you, is the impossibly beautiful face of Daisy Ridley.