On Return.

There is a particular loneliness to the last morning of a trip. Most services in this city will book you a taxi to the airport and call it a day. We don't think that's enough.

The car is a Genesis G90 again, the same one, the same driver. The bags are already downstairs before you come down, because the concierge quietly arranged it at 6 a.m. The driver knows your terminal, your airline, and — this is not a joke — which side of the check-in counter has the shorter line that morning.

At the airport, there is a private customs lane we use. You are through the formalities in under nine minutes. There is a lounge, and there is a quiet seat in it that someone has already chosen. Coffee arrives, without being asked.

And then the plane takes off, and we are no longer part of the story. The only evidence we were ever part of it is the small note, in your native language, that arrives on your phone an hour later: 'Welcome home.' That is the one thing we never automate.