The curtains fell on the day's performance at last, and twilight claimed the sky as we retired to our room after dinner with Miss Lakshmi. The meal itself had been nothing short of glorious—layers of heat and spice and comfort folded into one another. From the blazing hot pepper soup to the rich, velvet warmth of butter chicken, every bite felt like a small revelation. I never knew eating could feel so… alive.
"Heiwa," I said, rolling onto my side, "what did you think of that dish Halle called tabbouleh?"
She paused mid-stroke at her desk, quill hovering above the page. After a quiet moment, she turned her head just enough to regard me. "It was quite alright," she said calmly—then, after a breath, added, "And also quite the experience. It makes one wonder what other strange and wonderful dishes the world hides."
Then she turned back to her writing.
The writing she still refused to let me see.
"We'll reach the Capital by second dawn, right?" I asked, mostly to hear a voice break the hush.
"Yes," she replied after a slow inhale. "Miss Halle confirmed it with Mr. Henrijs."
"Alright," I murmured, shelving any further attempts at conversation. She had built a little wall around herself tonight, and I didn't feel like knocking it down.
A thought slipped through the quiet anyway. "I hope everyone is alright," I said softly. "Losing loved ones… it isn't something anyone walks away from unchanged."
Outside the window, night took its throne. The sky deepened into velvet black, and stars pierced through it one by one—slow, careful lights, as if afraid of being noticed.
"I wonder what the Capital is like," I murmured. "Heiwa, what do—"
I stopped myself halfway through the question. Whatever I was about to ask felt too fragile for words.
The bed was cold when I turned beneath the covers, winter seeping through the airship's bones, but it was the gentle kind of cold—the sort that pulls you closer to sleep rather than driving you from it.
Heiwa paused mid-stroke, quill hovering, as if she were cataloging the world's dangers in silence. Letting out a breath, she looked to the ceiling, though her mind seemed even further away.
"I'm going to bed," I said quietly. "Goodnight."
She didn't turn, but I felt her presence all the same.
I faced the window once more, tracing constellations I didn't fully recognize, mapping heavens that did not belong to my childhood skies. My thoughts drifted between stars and spices, wars and wonders, favours owed and futures unknown.
And somewhere between one blinking constellation and the next—sleep took me, leaving stars and questions lingering in the dark.