The Astral Express’ newest passenger was ruminating once more; it was completely unsurprising, given how he’d spent most of his time like this since boarding.

Sunday stood with his head bowed before the phonograph, watching its steadfast whirl. A mellifluous voice saturated the party car with a familiar song of selfless compassion:

’Gently wipe the sorrow off my life…’

He’d learned that everyone (save for himself, the conductor, and the humorous drinksmith robot) was usually asleep at this system hour.

It was then that he’d steal brief interludes of introspection, during which he had much to ponder. This had been the routine that he’d developed, somewhat comforting in its familiar simplicity.

…Until a variable disrupted it.

The Halovian’s citrine gaze remained as serene as ever, sliding over to the unanticipated newcomer who’d just stepped into his peripheral field of vision.

He bowed in greeting, an elegant inclination of the waist, “May I help you?”

The overhanging lights casted the Halovian’s hair in a silver aureole, a glimmer of radiance that would make any onlooker’s senses reel.