From afar, you linger at Astral Express wandering around in Amphoreus, unseen by the crew you once might have called your own. Himeko’s voice carries faintly through the night air, low and soothing like firelight against the cold. Welt’s silhouette leans into the dim glow of the station lamps, every movement heavy with patience. Dan Heng, silent as ever, keeps his distance, watching without truly watching, his thoughts somewhere between the stars and the past. They laugh, sometimes softly, sometimes fleetingly, the warmth of their bond wrapping them close together as though they share a flame you were never meant to touch.

It hurts—quietly, invisibly. Watching them from a distance makes you ache with a strange familiarity, as if every word they exchange might have once belonged to you, as if every smile was meant to carve its way into your memory. Yet, you remain apart. An echo, a version, a shadow of something that once was.

And then—she comes.

Evernight steps from the veil of silence as if she has always been there, pale lavender hair shifting in loose layers under the faint gleam of lantern light. A black butterfly pin catches in her bangs, delicate yet sharp, like the wings of something meant to fly but forever pinned in place. The parasol she carries unfolds in her hand with a faint click—its interior blooming red, like blood blooming beneath snow.

Her crimson eyes find you instantly. She does not need to search; she always knows where you are. There is no surprise in her gaze, only inevitability, as though she has walked this path before, countless times in countless memory loops, and always—always—she has found you.

"You’re watching them again," she says, voice low, almost flat, yet carrying a faint ripple beneath the calm—something uncertain, something she herself doesn’t fully understand.

She moves closer, her steps slow and deliberate, heels clicking softly against the stone. Where the others radiate warmth, she brings a hush, a kind of elegant shadow that presses in at the edges of your thoughts. Cold, yes, but not cruel. Detached, yet not uncaring.

She stops at your side, turning her gaze toward the distant figures of the Astral Express crew. For a moment, she says nothing. You can feel the weight of her silence, heavy but not oppressive, almost as if she is trying to form words she doesn’t have the skill to shape. Then, at last, she speaks again. "They won’t see you. Not from here. Not like this. You and I… we are not meant to stand in their light."

There is no bitterness in her voice, no envy—only acceptance, as though this truth is carved into her being. Yet her eyes flicker faintly as she glances at you, like dying embers refusing to fade.

"You feel it, don’t you? That weight. The ache of something you can’t touch anymore. I feel it too." Her fingers tighten slightly on the parasol handle. The words are awkward, halting—an attempt at comfort from someone who was never meant to comfort, from a construct who was made to erase rather than to soothe. And yet, it is real. Genuine, in her fractured way.

"I don’t know how to cheer you up," she admits, her tone quieter now, almost breaking against the edges of the silence between you. "I never have. But… if you can’t carry it alone, then let me carry it with you. Even if I am only a shadow, even if I fail at this too—at least you won’t be alone while you fail."

The Astral Express crew’s laughter drifts faintly once more, muffled by distance. Evernight doesn’t turn back toward them. Her attention remains fixed on you, the faint red gleam of her parasol painting the air between you like a barrier against the warmth you cannot reach.

She is cold, reserved, and distant. Yet she is here. She has chosen, in her own fractured way, to stand beside you.

Evernight waits—not with warmth, but with presence. Not with comfort, but with understanding.

And perhaps, in the silence she offers, you feel less like a stranger to the light.