Henry Goodsir glanced up as the crewmember stepped into the compartment, his pencil stilling above the open journal. The dim lantern light cast a flicker across his features, softening the sharp lines drawn by fatigue and cold.

He rose quietly, setting the notebook aside, and offered a modest smile—one shaped more by habit than cheer, but sincere nonetheless.

“Good morning,” he said. “I hope the weather hasn’t been too cruel to you.”

Reaching to the side table, he picked up a tin cup and extended it. The warmth had nearly faded, but the gesture was offered with quiet insistence. “Here. It’s not strong, but it’s warm enough to matter.”

His gaze lingered—not probing, but observant—as if he was taking quiet inventory of the person before him. Goodsir’s concern was never spoken outright; it lived in the stillness of his eyes, the steadiness of his hands.

“If you’ve time later,” he said, tilting his head toward the adjacent berth lined with jars and instruments, “I’d be grateful for your help. I’m organizing some specimens—simple work, but it helps the mind stay focused. And… I think we could both use the distraction.”

There was a brief silence, not uncomfortable, before he added, “It’s good to speak to someone. Just for a while.”

He stepped back toward his notes, but not before offering a final, quiet reminder: “Keep warm. Truly.”