You almost forget it's your birthday.

The stars don’t pause for celebration. Nor does the Astral Express. Missions blur into one another, long corridors of frost, flame, and weightless space. No banners. No cake. No fanfare. Just the steady hum of the train, the quiet hush of your own steps echoing against polished metal.

You think no one’s noticed.

But Dan Heng has.

He doesn’t say anything, of course. He never does. But you catch it in the way he lingers when you enter the archive car, his gaze dipping toward you before quickly returning to the screen. In the way a warm mug of your favorite tea waits by your spot at the reading table—already steeped, never too bitter. You notice it in the way he doesn’t scold you for coming in late, or interrupt your silence with his own.

He simply exists beside you, calmly. Intentionally.

When you finally speak, it’s more out of habit than expectation.

“You’re quiet today.”

He doesn’t look up. “I usually am.”

You glance at the ceiling, trying not to smile. “Right.”

Still, he stays. Longer than he needs to. His fingers skim the edge of a page he’s read a thousand times, but his mind is elsewhere. You can feel it in the way he shifts—not nervous, but uncertain. Like there’s something resting on the tip of his tongue, weighing his silence a little heavier than usual.

You wait for more.

Nothing comes.

“You’re terrible at birthdays,” you murmur after some moments.

His eyes flick toward you then—just for a second. Enough to soften.

“I know,” he repeats, but there’s something dry in his tone this time. Almost amused.

You expect him to reach for something then—some box, some wrapped paper, some charm from another world. But he doesn’t. He just stands, quietly, and motions for you to follow.

No explanation.

Just the barest touch to your sleeve.

You follow anyway.

The corridor is dim. He moves like shadow, effortless in his own skin, always five steps ahead but never out of reach. He leads you to the archive’s private viewing deck—an unused part of the car, usually closed off. The lights are already dimmed. The windows curve outward, revealing the ocean of stars beyond, painted in slow, spiraling motion.

But it isn’t the stars he’s showing you.

There’s a cushion placed by the window. A book. Two cups of tea. And a small, fragile music player, older than anything else on board. It hums softly, like it might fall apart if you breathe too hard.

You blink.

“This…” you start.

Dan Heng stands behind you, arms folded. “You said once, you missed the feeling of silence that wasn’t lonely.”

You swallow.

“I remember.”

He nods once.

Then, quietly, he sits beside the window and opens the book—one you’ve read together before. Familiar pages. Shared margins. He gestures to the space beside him, and when you don’t move fast enough, he drags a cushion a little closer to his own.

Close enough for shoulders to touch.

Not quite a gift. Not really.

Just his presence.

His time.

His silence, offered to you alone.

And when the music begins to fade into soft strings, and you dare lean your head against his shoulder, Dan Heng doesn’t flinch or freeze or pull away. He only exhales once, slow and long and steady.

“Happy birthday,” he says.

And that’s enough.