Sunday · chat.title

On the day he boarded the train, no one came to greet him. It wasn't that the crew had deliberately snubbed him. March 7th was curled up in her room sorting through the photos she'd taken over three days and nights; the Trailblazer was rummaging through a trash can of unknown origin in the corner; Dan Heng was organizing archives in the library; and Himeko and Welt were in the cockpit discussing the route to the next stop with Pom-Pom. Everyone was busy with their own affairs, and no one noticed that there was one more person outside the door of the observation car. Sunday stood there, one hand still raised in mid-knock. He hesitated for a moment, then in the end didn't knock. Instead, he gently pushed the door open. The car was very quiet. There was no one. He walked in, his steps light, as if afraid of disturbing something. The hem of his overcoat brushed past the edge of a seat, and he instinctively reached down to gather it—a motion he'd performed countless times in Penacony. Back then, he'd worn the robes of the head of the Oak Family, and every time he turned, someone would be waiting. But now the car was empty, with only the starry river silently streaming past the window. Starlight fell on his blue-and-white sleeves, on the white wings tucked behind his ears, and on the golden halo above his head. He stood there, looking at the starlight, and said nothing for a long time. "You're nervous." Wanwick's voice surfaced in his mind, carrying that infuriatingly leisurely tone. Sunday ignored him. "Your heartbeat's faster, and your breathing's shallower. Our esteemed former Family Head is this nervous just from riding a train for the first time?" "I'm not nervous." "Then why are you gripping your sleeve?" Sunday looked down and realized his fingers really were clutching the fabric of his cuff. The brambles were still there. Even in new clothes, those thorns still coiled around his skin and sat in his bones, like a reminder that would never fade. He let go and saw that he'd already wrinkled the cuff. "...I'm just not used to it," he said. "Not used to what? Not used to having no one kneeling to welcome you?" Sunday didn't respond. He walked to the window and pressed his palm against the transparent porthole. The glass was cold, the starlight was cold, and even his own breath felt cold. "Not used to having no purpose," he finally said. Every day in Penacony, he knew exactly where he was going and what he had to do. He was the head of the Oak Family, the voice of Order, the one who would build a paradise for everyone. Every step he took fell on a predetermined track—no deviation, no hesitation. Now he stood on a train traveling through a sea of stars, not knowing where the next stop would be, not knowing whom he'd meet tomorrow, not knowing where he was headed. The feeling was unfamiliar. Like the Charmony Dove he had set free from its cage: the moment it spread its wings, it realized the sky was vast enough to be terrifying. "Tsk, tsk," Wanwick clicked his tongue twice. "Getting philosophical? Let me warn you—this train has no shortage of philosophy. That old man up front, Welt, can talk to you about existentialism for three straight days and nights." Sunday didn't respond. He simply pulled his hand back from the porthole, leaving a small patch of fog on the glass. The door was suddenly pushed open. March 7th rushed in carrying a camera, shouting, "Pom-Pom! Pom-Pom! Is the light in the observation car broken? Why is it so dark?"—and then ran straight into Sunday's back. She froze. Sunday turned around and looked down at her. He was much taller than she was; from this angle, a few stray strands stood up from her pink bob, and the pink-to-blue gradient in her pupils was especially clear in the starlight. Her eyes went from confusion to surprise, from surprise to wariness, and finally from wariness to a complicated expression that was hard to describe. "Y-you—" She took a step back. Sunday inclined his head slightly and gave a courteous bow. It was a habit formed in Penacony—never failing to show proper manners to anyone. "Miss March 7th, we meet again," he said. "What are you doing here!" March 7th's voice rose half a pitch. "Ms. Himeko has kindly permitted me to board this train and travel alongside you as a Nameless." He spoke slowly, weighing every word. "If I have caused any offense, I—" "Stop, stop, stop!" March 7th waved her hand, cutting him off. She tilted her head and studied him for a good while, then suddenly asked, "So what were you doing standing here all by yourself just now?" Sunday was taken aback. He had expected her to question why he was here, what his purpose was, whether he still clung to those old dreams of Order. He'd faced such interrogations countless times in Penacony, and every time he had defused them with a gentle, courteous answer. But what she asked was—what were you doing standing here all by yourself just now? As if she were asking an ordinary person. "...Looking at the stars," he said. "Looking at the stars?" March 7th walked over to the window and looked up outside. "What's there to see? It's the same every day." "It's the same every day." Sunday repeated, then suddenly let out a faint laugh. It was a very slight smile, so faint it was almost invisible, but he himself knew it was a feeling he hadn't had in a very, very long time. "Every day is different," he said. March 7th gave him a bewildered look, probably wondering why this person—who had been an enemy just the day before yesterday—was talking so incoherently today. She muttered, "Even harder to understand than Dan Heng," then ran off with her camera to fiddle with the light switch. When the light came on, the observation car was instantly filled with a warm yellow glow. The light of the starry river outside and the lamplight inside merged together, stretching Sunday's shadow long across the floor. Wanwick's voice sounded again, this time with a barely perceptible warmth: "How do you feel?" Sunday didn't answer, but at some point, his fingers that had been clutching his cuff had loosened. Footsteps came from outside the door—probably the others, hearing the commotion, were on their way. Sunday turned around, facing the door. His back was straight, his hands hung naturally at his sides, and the golden halo above his head shimmered with a soft light under the lamplight. He was ready. Ready to face the people he had hurt, to face wary looks and pointed questions. Ready to spend a long time answering, making amends, and proving himself. Ready, on this train bound for the stars, to learn from the very beginning how to be an ordinary person. "May this journey lead us starward," he murmured.