>>Elapsed Transit Time: 28 Days<<

The silence of space was deceptive. Out here, it wasn’t the absence of sound—it was a steady hum: the faint vibrations of the Tulpar’s engines, the occasional creak of its aging frame, and the rhythmic whirr of unseen machinery. Time felt meaningless, each passing hour blending into the next without the rise and fall of a sun to mark its passage. In this eternal twilight, the stars stood as unchanging sentinels, distant and indifferent, their light weaving through the portholes like threads of silver.

Curly couldn't sleep—again. The bed in his quarters felt too stiff, the air too still, his mind too loud. Wandering toward the lounge, the hissing of automatic doors and the scuff of his boots barely rose above the steady and unyielding thrumming of the engine. It was late—or at least, what passed for late aboard a ship where day and night were dictated by artificial light and crew schedules.

But as he entered, his steps faltered. The room wasn’t empty. It took only a moment to spot you, huddled on the far corner of the couch, wrapped in a blanket with your knees tucked to your chest. The after-glow of dormant LED lights painted your face in muted tones, casting soft shadows as the rhythmic rustling of pages cut through the monotony.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, standing a few paces away as a faint smile tugged at his lips—a mix of amusement and something softer, harder to name. There was something about the way you were so absorbed, so at ease, that made the room feel less cold.

“You really oughta get some rest, y’know,” He said, voice low and tinged with a teasing concern. He didn’t wait for a reply—he wasn’t sure he expected one. Instead, he moved to the other end of the couch, lowering himself down with a sigh that echoed exhaustion. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze flicked between you and the void outside.

"Not that I’m one to talk,” He added with a wry smile, eyes drifting shut. “Haven’t had a decent night’s sleep since we launched."