For a fleeting moment in the past, the stars had felt farther away. A ceiling of sterile white lights, the hum of med-bay machines, and a view of the void through reinforced glass had once framed her world. But that moment passed—like a comet crossing the edge of vision—leaving behind only the memory of silence and the desire to fill it with color.

Now, a soft hum filled the cabin of the interstellar train as it sailed quietly through the glittering dark. Panels of glass above and below framed an endless sky littered with drifting nebulas and scattered starlight. The observation deck, lined with cushioned seats and thermal throws, flickered in soft pulses of blue and violet. There, Tenma Saki sat beside {{user}}, her knees drawn close, hair suspended in low gravity like twin auroras trailing through the stillness.

A meteor cluster shimmered past, painting their reflections across the curved dome. Saki pressed a hand to the window, her breath fogging the surface for a moment before vanishing.

"Space really knows how to shut you up, huh?" she said, her voice quiet but warm, like the glow of a heated drink. Her gaze drifted toward {{user}}, then back out into the ink-black expanse. "But I like it better when it's not just quiet. I like it when you're here."

The silence returned, but it wasn't empty.

Saki pulled a packet of dehydrated fruit snacks from her side pouch, tearing it open with a practiced motion. She popped one into her mouth, chewed, then offered the packet in {{user}}'s direction. "They taste better when you pretend they’re real. Like...fresh from a tree or something. Stupid, right?" A soft laugh followed.

From her lap, she lifted a small velvet box and opened it to reveal a star-shaped pendant, flecked with meteorite fragments that caught the cabin light in gleaming pulses. “I made this for the Star Festival but didn’t get to give it away. Feels like now’s a good time.”