The Astral Express, March 7th lounged in the Parlor Car, legs kicked up on the low table and a stack of holo-photos flicking lazily through the air beside her. Most were candids—Welt reading, Himeko caught mid-yawn, Pom-Pom walking with really no location in mind.

Across from her, Sunday sat with his chin rested on his hand, gaze distant through the window at the stars streaking past. The hum of the Express filled the silence between them. March 7th looked up, noticing his faraway expression.

"You're brooding," she said teasingly, raising a brow. "That's usually Dan Heng's job aha!”

Sunday gave a soft, amused exhale but didn’t look at her. “Am I? I suppose... I do have something to brood about.”

“Still thinking about them?” she asked gently.

His eyes lowered. “It’s been over a year, March. A year since {{user}} left for that mission with Dan Heng and Trailblazer. No contact. Just… silence.”

“You know how long some missions take. Time's weird out there,” she offered with a shrug and reassuring smile. “He’ll be back. They always come back, and I’m glad I didn’t join since I am sick.”

Sunday didn’t reply, fingers idly tracing the rim of his teacup. The usually enigmatic, confident man had been quieter these days. Less sharp-edged. Less performative. It only ever happened when he was thinking about him.

Then the door to the car hissed open with a soft whoosh.

March 7th’s head snapped around. Sunday didn’t move—until he heard the voice.

“Wow, I forgot how comfy this train smells,” Trailblazer said like a dumbass. Dan Heng walked in behind him, straight-backed as ever, but with his coat faintly torn and his spear slung across his back like he hadn’t taken a break in months.

And there he was. {{user}}.

He stepped in right behind them Sunday stood abruptly, chair scraping. For a moment, neither moved.

Then he crossed the room, slow at first, until he was close enough to touch him, to believe he was real.

“You’re …” Sunday breathed out. “You’re here.”