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Dan Heng visits the girl every day.
After he and Welt had dragged her out of the ice block they found her in, Himeko had made sure she showed no signs of hypothermia, then the Astral Express had set course for Herta Space Station as soon as they could for further medical assistance. Himeko had told Dan Heng that the girl was in no danger, but no one could say for certain when she would wake up.
Himeko and Pom-Pom had tidied the room next to Dan Heng’s, and the girl now sleeps inside, has been unconscious for days. Dan Heng doesn’t know why he feels compelled to check on her so often. It’s not a matter of not trusting Himeko; on the contrary, she’s the person he trusts the most now. Yet every day after breakfast, he picks a few files from his shelves and takes them to the girl’s room, sitting and reading by her bedside until Pom-Pom calls him for the next meal.
No one knows where she’s from. Even Welt and Himeko, who have been to far more worlds and seen far more things than he, can’t begin to guess why she was left alone in space. As far as he can tell, she has no home to go back to.
He glances at her out of the corner of his eye, then reaches out to adjust her blankets. He remembers how it felt, to wake up to frigid cold branded around his wrists and ankles, caged in a cell of freezing darkness. He remembered nothing, then, until all his sins were read to him day after agonising day.
He could go about his day like before, really. He could resume sorting the data in the archives, reading, training, and yet, he is here.
Perhaps it is because he doesn’t want her to wake up alone.
When the girl opens her eyes, Dan Heng recalls a memory.
He remembers his past, the past before his past, much like the way flowers bloom. The petals are closed tight around his memories, but in his dreams, they unfurl. His dreams tell him of a precious thing called jade. He’d been adorned from head to toe in these stones, once. The most valuable of them would shine from within, elegantly clear.
The girl’s eyes are clear as ice. They would make the most precious of gems.
He sends a quick text to Himeko. Before the girl has even adjusted to her surroundings, all the occupants of the express have come knocking on the door. He moves aside to let Himeko check the girl’s heart rate and senses.
“I’m Himeko,” the train navigator says slowly. “Don’t be scared, you’re safe here.”
The girl is shivering, but she nods, her breathing still measured.
“I’m Welt.” The older man sets aside his cane and kneels by the bedside, although it must be hurting his knees to do so. It does succeed in making him look less intimidating. He gestures to Dan Heng, who moves to stand behind Himeko, half concealing his tall frame. “That is Dan Heng, the train’s guard.”
“Pom-Pom here,” their train conductor says seriously. It’s rather jarring to see none of their usual cheer.
The girl’s gaze darts between them. “...Do you know who I am?”
“No, unfortunately,” Himeko admits. “We were hoping you could tell us. Can you recall anything?”
The girl opens her mouth, then closes it. Her hands clench her blankets. “No, nothing at all. I–I don’t–Why can’t I remember anything?”
“Shh,” Himeko takes her hand, and when the girl doesn’t pull away, she starts patting it softly. “It’s okay. How about we start slowly? Little by little. What’s your name?”
The girl shakes her head. “I don’t remember,” she mumbles. “I don’t–” She bites her lip, as if she would break if she continued.
Himeko hums. “Then would you like one? Something for us to call you. A cute name for a cute girl.”
The girl nods fervently. Himeko casts her eyes to Welt and Dan Heng.
“Today is March 7th,” Welt suggests. “How does that sound?”
“March 7th,” the girl repeats. “I’m March 7th.”
“You’re March 7th,” Himeko echoes. “Welcome on board, March 7th. Our little March. You’ll be okay here. I promise.”
The girl tears up then, and within seconds she is sobbing in earnest. Himeko pulls her into an embrace, murmuring softly and patting her back. Dan Heng knows what it feels like. Himeko is warm and safe; it was she who had nursed him back to health after he’d stumbled onto the express, bloodied and broken. Welt holds March 7th’s small hand in his own callused one, offering what comfort he can.
And Dan Heng, he watches and aches, for he too has a new name, and nowhere to return to.
But like him, March 7th will now have a home. They will have each other, and Himeko, and Welt, and Pom-Pom. Himeko will make one more cup of coffee at breakfast, Welt will have one more person in his audience as he tells stories, and Pom-Pom will have to warn one more passenger to keep the seats clean.
When Himeko looks at him and opens her arms, he buries his face into her skirt, and hopes she pretends that she didn’t see him cry.
Himeko makes Dan Heng and Welt wait in the parlour car as she helps March pick a new outfit.
Welt is deep in thought. Dan Heng knows what he’s thinking about, but he’s in no place to point out that she might pose a danger to them. After all, Pom-Pom had accepted him regardless when he’d shown up half-dead, having narrowly escaped the shadow that haunts him.
It is Pom-Pom who gave him a place to stay in the vast cosmos, Pom-Pom who he found rummaging through the shelves for Xianzhou recipe books, Pom-Pom who secretly asks Welt to find thicker blankets for Dan Heng whenever they stop by various planets.
The conductor urges Welt to make a decision, and once again, they accept March 7th with a grin and a hug. They search the entire train for everything soft and cute, piling them all in March 7th’s room, and by the end of the day, she is smiling, Pom-Pom knows she doesn’t like broccoli, and the crew prints a new passenger card for the girl they found amidst the stars.
“Dan Heng, do you know who I am?”
Himeko, Welt and Pom-Pom are almost always busy, so Dan Heng supposes that’s why March has made it her new mission to become the best of friends with the quietest passenger. Although she shows up frequently enough to be a nuisance to any other person, Dan Heng doesn’t turn her away. At least she knocks before she enters.
He flips a page. “I don’t.”
She scoots closer to him, and the bean bag they’re sitting on sags a little. She’d dragged it into his room with the reasoning that sitting on his rock-hard chair would damage both their backs. He has to admit, the bean bag is quite comfortable, albeit bright pink. “But could you guess? From all those books you read?”
“You could read them yourself,” he suggests.
March pulls a face. “No way. They all look so boring. How do you remember everything you read anyway? There are probably thousands of books and files in here.”
“I don’t,” he says. “When I forget something, I just find the book and look it up.”
She hums, seemingly content with his reply. When her singing comes to an abrupt stop, Dan Heng casts her a glance.
She’s looking down at her hands like they aren’t hers. In the smallest voice he’d ever heard from her since the day they gave her her name, she says, “I don’t remember what we had for breakfast three days ago.”
To anyone, it might be a small matter. But Dan Heng understands that, to March, it’s terrifying. Dan Heng can see how she tries to remember things, to put them in her head so that when she searches her mind, it wouldn’t be frighteningly empty. She memorises all the details in Welt’s stories and has committed smoothie recipes to heart.
Dan Heng is not afraid, because his memories catch up to him wherever he goes, but for March, to forget is something that scares her, because she knows what it is like to not remember a single thing. To forget is a cruel reminder that it can happen again, if she isn’t careful.
He stands and walks to the shelves, rummaging through rows of empty notebooks until he finds a pink one, a colour she would like.
“Here.” He hands her the book along with a pen. “You can write lots of things down here. Start by writing what we had for breakfast.”
She gapes at him. He motions for her to get along with it.
She takes the pen and flips to the first page. “We had hot milk and pancakes…you and Himeko had coffee…Pom-Pom gave me extra blueberries…” She glances up, still perplexed. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“You can treat this like a diary,” he suggests. “Write about your day, like how many times you hear Mr. Welt grumble about storyboarding, to how many times Pom-Pom has watered the plant in the parlour car. That way, you can always look back and remember, like how I refer to my books.”
To his surprise, she tackles him in a hug, squeezing tight. “Thank you,” she whispers, muffled into his shirt.
He pats her head twice, then tells her to go back to her room or help him with the archives. She flees, giggling, and he finds himself smiling.
After the diary, Dan Heng isn’t surprised when March comes back from the space station one day with a new camera in her hands.
“Asta gave it to me! She saw me eyeing it and just let me have it, can you believe that? Just how rich is she?”
Dan Heng raises his eyebrows. She doesn’t feel quite right today. Under his sharp scrutinisation, her shoulders sag.
“Last time we were here, I saw a really pretty flower in one of the pots,” she starts. “The people there are so boring! All they know is their own field of expertise, and all their plants are the same shade of green. But there was this girl whose desk had a pretty pink flower, you know? I remember it very well.
When I went to look for it this time, it wasn’t there anymore. It was so beautiful, it’s carved into my mind. But well, what if I forget one day?”
She laughs, but the sound is brittle. Her camera is her way of preserving memories, stilling moments like freezing time. She takes pictures every day, of anything and everything, and he knows she is afraid. She laughs when people ask why she takes her camera with her wherever she goes, and says it is because she will at least have one thing with her if she is sealed in ice and cast into space again.
Whenever she asks him to pose for a picture, Dan Heng doesn’t refuse. If she forgets one day, at least her camera will remind her that she was here once, with the Astral Express, loved and adored.