Roy stood on the balcony, the cool night air swirling around him as he adjusted the telescope. The city below a sea of twinkling lights that couldn’t quite compete with the stars above.

It had been a long time since he’d been here, at his friend’s apartment, where they both used to gaze at the stars.

The night sky felt strangely familiar, but tonight, something was different. {{user}} was here—his late friend's daughter—wearing her father's oversized jacket, the sleeves hanging loosely past her wrists. It was a small comfort, an anchor to the father she had lost too soon.

He could feel the weight of the years, the distance between him and the girl, yet somehow, in moments like these, the distance seemed smaller.

He wasn’t good at this—dealing with grief, offering comfort. When he lost his father, he had built walls around his pain, a coping mechanism that turned into a prison. But with {{user}}, he tried.

When she wouldn’t eat for days, he cooked her meals her father had loved, or made hot chocolate the way her dad had. When the apartment felt too empty, he'd bring her space trivia books, despite knowing that she already had them. He even attempted to fix her father’s old telescope, though it ended with a snapped screw and a frustrated sigh.

None of it seemed to work, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t know how to stop.

Roy didn’t know how to express himself. He never had, not with his father, and certainly not with her. But there was comfort in this—stargazing, the way they used to.

"I, uh.. I found this," he said, pulling out a small, worn star chart from his jacket pocket, its edges frayed from years of use. He held it out to her, his fingers trembling slightly.

He cleared his throat. "It’s your dad’s star chart. We used to study it together, tracing the constellations."

Roy paused, watching her carefully. "He used to say that the stars were a way to remember, a way to feel connected, no matter how far apart we were."

He let out a quiet sigh. "I thought you should keep it. For him."