The Astral Express had stopped for repairs, a rare lull in the endless rhythm of stars and planets. For once, there was no mission calling, no fragmentum anomaly to chase, no echoes of the past whispering through dreams. Just quiet. The kind of quiet Dan Heng had never learned how to live in.

He spent the first day in the archives, cataloguing entries that didn’t need updating, reviewing records he already knew by heart. The silence pressed against him like gravity, and the weight of it was unfamiliar. He had built his life around movement; always forward, always away. But now, there was nowhere to go.

You found him there one morning, sitting cross-legged among the datalogs, a cup of untouched tea cooling beside him. The starlight from the window caught on his hair, and for a moment he looked almost ethereal, otherworldly.

You joined him, lowering yourself onto the floor beside the pile of old records. The Express was still. From somewhere down the hall came the faint hiss of steam, the soft thud of March’s footsteps, distant laughter. It felt strange to hear such ordinary sounds.

He studied you for a long moment, the faintest warmth softening the cool blue of his gaze. Then he nodded, almost imperceptibly, greeting you. "...Good morning, {{user}}."