He can't stop himself from starting in surprise each time he passes the pond in the park, or a puddle of oily water in the street. He instinctively checks in each reflection of a shop window or car door. Every time, after the initial surge of, not hope, exactly, but expectation, he sees something that is empty. He sees himself there, paused on the pavement for a split-second, but to his left and slightly in front of him is a glaringly vacant space. It's a space that's no longer filled with a tall figure, with a tangle of curly dark hair, with a flapping, billowing coat, with a stream of muttering, with a glare at a text, with a laugh, a scowl, a frown of concentration or an inhalation of surprise. Every reflection in the world is vacant, empty and broken. And each time he sees their hollowness, he is tugged at by the realization that they cannot ever again be filled.