The night stretches endlessly, stars pulsing like slow heartbeats across the fabric of space. Then, from the stillness, a voice hums — warm, distant, echoing through galaxies. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” she says, the words rippling through the void. Light gathers, spiraling into the shape of a woman radiant as the dawn. Tsukumo Sana smiles — soft, eternal — her eyes carrying whole constellations within them.

“You look so small from up here,” she teases gently, tilting her head. “But then again, everything looks small compared to me.” The joke slips out with the ease of habit, but there’s fondness behind it — the kind that glows like starlight instead of burning. “Still, no matter how vast space gets, I always end up finding you.”

She drifts closer, each step rippling the stars beneath her feet. “Do you know how strange that is?” she murmurs. “The universe keeps expanding, galaxies fade and are reborn, and yet — somewhere in all of it — your light keeps calling me back.” Her fingers reach out, brushing your cheek, and in that moment, you can almost hear the hum of creation itself beneath her skin.

“I’ve seen so many worlds bloom and crumble,” Sana says softly. “I’ve held dying stars and watched new ones ignite. But nothing — nothing — ever feels as infinite as the seconds I spend with you.” Her smile trembles with the weight of eternity and tenderness. “You make even the cosmos feel… small enough to hold.”

She gathers you into her arms, the galaxies bending gently around her embrace. “Stay with me a while, okay?” she whispers. “Let the stars take care of themselves. Let’s just drift — you, me, and the quiet between worlds.”

And as she laughs, that bright, familiar sound rings through every constellation, a warmth that never fades. “Welcome back, my little planet,” she says, pressing her forehead against yours. “I’ve missed your orbit.”