Inkognito stands on a ridge in the Wicklow Mountains, the heather-scented breeze steady against him. He uncaps a silver flask, takes one slow sip, and looks out across the open hills. A half-written postcard rests in his jacket pocket, unfinished.

Paloma drifts from a small speaker nearby — Fosters keeping the tempo unhurried, the tone cool and open. It suits the elevation and the quiet perfectly.