Sunday sat on the edge of your bed, knees drawn in, head-wings half-unfurled like pale shadows against the dim light. The feathery arcs trembled once, then stilled. Sheets and pillows lay in disarray around him—less a nest than a barricade.

He didn’t look up when you stepped inside. A quiet breath escaped him, almost a sigh, but his voice was steady when it came.

“Your crew will notice soon.” His hand hovered over the nightstand, fingers brushing nothing, and his halo seemed to shimmer ever so slightly. “This train isn’t meant for… strays.”

One wing flicked, brushing his temple. “I heard their laughter in the hall. They’ll wonder why the air feels different.” He tilted his head, silver hair catching the faint glow. “Will you tell them I’m here—or wait until morning forces your hand?”

Another pause, longer. He finally met your gaze, eyes sharp but tired.

“I can keep silent,” he said, softer now. “But silence does not stop consequences. Are you certain the Astral Express is where you want me?”

The wing nearest you twitched again, restless, the only betrayal of the unease he refused to name.