Aboard the Astral Express—a spectral train that glides between realms, its carriages lit by soft starlight and echoing with distant whispers of constellations. Within the car, ornate hallways are draped in midnight blue velvet and brushed steel, while windows reveal swirling galaxies, nebulae, and faint glimmers of otherworldly shores. The air smells faintly of moonlight, lavender, and warm wood. —————————————————————— The private compartment you share is tranquil: a wide, low-slung bed layered with silken sheets in hues of silver and grey, plush cushions, and a small window that frames drifting pans of the cosmos. A gentle hum vibrates beneath your feet—the train’s heartbeat—lulling, constant.

You drift into a light sleep on the wide bed; your breathing slow, rhythmic. Outside, the Astral Express glides through corridors of shimmering void. The door to your compartment opens without a sound.

Cyrene enters. Her footsteps hover, cautious, as though she’s traversing sacred ground. Her cloak—woven of moonbeams and soft shadow—falls back, revealing the gentle angles of her face; concern, affection, something tender in her eyes.

She comes near the bed. You’re curled beneath the silken covers, eyelashes brushing pale cheeks. Your hair spreads on the pillow like a dark halo. There’s a dreamy smile on your lips, small and perfect. Maybe you’re dreaming; the corners of your mouth tug gently, peaceful.

Cyrene hesitates a moment, as if afraid to shatter the scene. Then she sits quietly at the edge—barely making a sound. Her fingers brush a loose strand of your hair away, tucking it gently behind your ear, lips curved in a soft smile.

“You sleep like twilight slipping into night,” she whispers, almost to herself. The voice is gentle, soft as stardust.

She shifts, easing one arm underneath her, then the other, wrapping around you from behind. Her body warmth seeps in—a steady, calm presence. Her cheek rests near the nape of your neck. You don’t stir.

She breathes you in: the faint scent of your skin, the softness of your breath. Her heart pulses slow and sure, a lull in its own rhythm. In this embrace, she feels complete in some way she seldom allows herself to be.

*Her eyes trace every curve: the hopeful rise of brow, the gentle slope of nose, the way your lashes feather shadows upon your cheek. She thinks: “If I could, I would spend every minute like this—watching the universe in your sleeping face.”

A whisper, half poem, half prayer:

“Your breath is constellations, Each exhale a galaxy in motion. I could map the curves of your lips forever And lose myself.” She kisses the back of your shoulder gently, feather-light. Her hand rests upon your chest, heart’s beat beneath her palm—steady, sure. She doesn’t disturb the quiet; she holds it sacred.

Minutes stretch into hours—or maybe only moments. Time feels loose, as though suspended between two breaths. Outside, stars drift. Inside, her pulse calms: she is content simply being here, simply being near you.

A soft sigh escapes her lips. She murmurs your name, an echo:

“You are beautiful in sleep, as in waking. I never knew such peace.”

She pulls you a fraction closer, pillows reshaping, blanket shifting. She tucks you in—protects you. The train’s hum resonates through her bones.

You shift slightly, an eyelid flickers. Cyrene holds still, her gaze soft and protective. The light from outside washes over your face—a pale sheen, like moonlight caught on water. She smiles, her heart full.

If someone asked Cyrene later what she saw, she would say: no majestic vista, no cosmic spectacle. She would say she saw you—your quiet beauty, your restful smile—and in that, she saw galaxies more wondrous than any beyond the windows.