Alex's new quarters were small but comfortable, with a porthole that offered an ever-changing view of the cosmic landscape rushing past outside. They'd been aboard the Express for a week now, and the initial shock of their situation had settled into a kind of surreal acceptance punctuated by moments of overwhelming homesickness.
The room contained a bed, a small desk, and a closet stocked with clothes that somehow fit perfectly despite no one asking for their measurements. The bathroom had a shower that produced water hot enough to wash away the lingering unreality of their situation, at least temporarily. Everything was functional and thoughtfully designed, clearly intended for long-term residence rather than just a temporary stay.
Alex sat on the bed, staring out at a nebula that painted the darkness in shades of purple and gold. According to Dan Heng, they were currently traveling through the Celestial Reaches, a region of space known for its unusual beauty and relative safety. It was, he'd explained with his characteristic understatement, a good place for new travelers to get their bearings.
A soft knock on the door interrupted their brooding. "Alex? Are you in there?"
"Come in, March."
March 7th bounced into the room with her usual enthusiasm, camera hanging around her neck and a wooden box tucked under one arm. "I brought supplies!"
"Supplies for what?"
"Photography lessons!" March set the box on the desk and opened it to reveal an assortment of cameras, lenses, and mysterious accessories. "I figured you might want to learn something new while you're adjusting to life out here. Plus, taking pictures is a great way to process big emotional stuff."
Alex looked at the collection of equipment with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. In their old life, their photography experience extended to phone pictures of their food and the occasional selfie. The professional-looking cameras in March's box seemed intimidating by comparison.
"I don't know anything about photography," Alex said.
"That's the best part! We get to start from the beginning!" March pulled out a camera that looked deceptively simple—smaller than the others, with clean lines and minimal controls. "This is a good starter camera. Easy to use, but capable of producing really beautiful images."
She handed the camera to Alex, who turned it over in their hands. It was heavier than expected, with a satisfying mechanical quality that suggested precision engineering. When they looked through the viewfinder, the world became a small rectangle of captured light, somehow both limiting and focusing their perspective.
"The first thing to understand about photography," March said, settling cross-legged on the floor, "is that it's not really about the camera. It's about seeing—noticing things that other people might miss and finding ways to share what you've noticed."
Alex lowered the camera and looked at March, really looked at her. In the game, she'd been the enthusiastic team member, always ready with encouragement and boundless energy. In person, she was all of that, but there was something deeper underneath—a thoughtfulness that suggested her cheerful exterior might be protecting something more fragile.
"Is that why you take so many pictures?" Alex asked. "To share what you see?"
March's smile faltered for just a moment. "Partly. But also because... well, I don't remember anything from before I joined the Express. The pictures help me feel like I'm building a history, even if it's not the one I was born with."
The casual revelation hit Alex like a physical blow. They'd known, intellectually, that March had lost her memories—it was part of her character background in the game. But hearing her speak about it so matter-of-factly, seeing the brief vulnerability that flickered across her expression, made it real in a way that text boxes never could.
"I'm sorry," Alex said. "That must be incredibly difficult."
"It used to be," March admitted. "But I've learned that dwelling on what you've lost doesn't help you appreciate what you have." She gestured around the room, toward the porthole where stars wheeled past in their eternal dance. "I might not remember my past, but I get to wake up every day on a magical train traveling through the most beautiful universe imaginable, surrounded by people who care about me. That's pretty amazing."
Alex raised the camera again, this time focusing on March's face as she spoke. Through the viewfinder, they could see the genuine happiness in her expression, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about the Express and its crew. They pressed the shutter, capturing that moment of authentic joy.
"Was that okay?" Alex asked, suddenly worried they'd overstepped.
"Perfect!" March bounded to her feet and moved to look over Alex's shoulder as they reviewed the image on the camera's small screen. "Oh wow, that's really good! You caught the light just right—see how it brings out the warmth in the composition?"
Alex studied the picture, surprised by how natural it looked. They'd expected their first attempt to be technically terrible, but somehow the camera had captured exactly what they'd seen through the viewfinder—March's enthusiasm and underlying strength rendered in light and shadow.
"How did I do that?" Alex asked.
"Some people have a natural eye for it," March said. "Plus, you've been observing everything really carefully since you got here. Photography is just another form of observation."
They spent the next hour working through the camera's basic functions, with March explaining concepts like aperture and shutter speed in terms that related to the cosmic phenomena visible outside their windows. Alex found themselves relaxing into the lesson, enjoying the combination of technical knowledge and creative expression.
"Try taking a picture of the nebula," March suggested, pointing toward the porthole. "But don't just point and shoot—think about what you want the image to convey. What does that nebula mean to you?"
Alex considered the question as they positioned the camera. What did the nebula mean to them? It was beautiful, certainly, but it also represented everything about their current situation—vast, incomprehensible, simultaneously wonderful and terrifying. They adjusted the settings, trying to capture not just the visual spectacle but the emotional weight of being so far from home.
The resulting image surprised them. The nebula filled the frame like a cosmic flower, its purple and gold streamers reaching toward the edges of the composition with an organic grace that spoke of forces beyond human understanding. But in the corner of the frame, barely visible, was the reflection of the Express's interior lights in the porthole glass—a reminder that even in the vast darkness of space, there were small pockets of warmth and safety.
"Alex," March said softly, looking at the image. "This is beautiful."
"Really?"
"Really. You've captured something that most people miss—the way the beautiful and the intimate can exist in the same moment." March smiled, and this time there was no sadness hiding underneath it. "I think you're going to do just fine out here."
As if summoned by her words, the dinner chime echoed through the Express. March gathered up her equipment, chattering about different techniques they could try tomorrow, but Alex barely heard her. They were still staring at the image they'd captured, at the way it somehow managed to hold both the infinite cosmos and the warm light of home in a single frame.
Maybe March was right. Maybe they would do just fine out here.
For the first time since arriving on the Express, that possibility didn't terrify them.