Sleep aboard the Express had been elusive since leaving Herta Space Station three days ago. Alex lay in their narrow bunk, staring through the porthole at the cosmic vista beyond, watching stars wheel past in their eternal dance while their mind churned through everything they'd learned about their situation.
The universe was vast. Intellectually, they'd always known this—had studied stellar distances and galactic scales in their astrophysics classes, had memorized the numbers that described the incomprehensible enormity of space. But knowing something and truly understanding it were different things entirely, and living among the stars had forced that understanding upon them with crushing inevitability.
Out there, beyond the warm safety of the Express, billions of civilizations rose and fell according to the whims of cosmic forces beyond any mortal comprehension. Aeons reshaped reality according to their incomprehensible designs. Entire worlds could be consumed by Stellaron corruption without the wider galaxy even noticing. And somewhere in that infinite darkness, Alex's original Earth continued its quiet orbit around an unremarkable yellow star, unaware that one of its residents had been plucked from existence and deposited in a universe where their deepest concerns would barely register as statistical noise.
The mathematics of it were staggering. The Express was currently traveling through a region of space containing approximately forty billion star systems. Each system might host dozens of worlds. Each world might contain billions of individual lives. And this was just one small corner of one galaxy among countless others scattered throughout a universe so large that light itself couldn't span its breadth in the time since creation began.
Alex pressed their palms against their temples, trying to push back the growing sense of vertigo that had nothing to do with the Express's motion through space. They were one person. One individual consciousness in an ocean of existence so vast that their presence or absence would make no meaningful difference to anything. Even if they somehow managed to save an entire world, there would still be countless other worlds facing similar threats, stretching out into infinity.
The porthole showed them a nebula painted in shades of green and gold, its beauty so profound that artists across the galaxy probably spent lifetimes trying to capture even a fraction of its majesty. But even that stunning vista was just gas and dust, the corpse of a dead star beautified by distance and perspective. Everything died. Stars, planets, civilizations, individuals—all of it ground down by entropy and the relentless passage of time until nothing remained but cold atoms drifting through empty space.
"I can't do this," Alex whispered to their reflection in the porthole glass. "I can't be part of something this big."
A soft knock interrupted their spiral of cosmic dread. "Alex? Are you awake?"
Dan Heng's voice carried its usual quiet calm, but there was something underneath it—a note of concern that suggested he'd been listening to them pace around their quarters for the past hour.
"Come in," Alex said, not bothering to move from their position by the window.
Dan Heng entered without turning on the lights, settling into the room's single chair with the fluid grace that seemed to characterize all his movements. In the dim illumination from the porthole, his pale hair seemed to glow softly, and his expression held the kind of patient attention that made it easy to understand why he served as the Express's archivist.
"Difficult night?" he asked.
"Difficult existence," Alex replied. "Do you ever think about how small we are? How utterly insignificant?"
"Frequently." Dan Heng's honesty was somehow comforting. "The universe is indeed vast, and our individual contributions to it may seem negligible when viewed from a cosmic perspective."
"Then how do you stand it? How do you get up every morning and pretend that anything you do matters?"
Dan Heng was quiet for a long moment, considering the question with the seriousness it deserved. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of someone who had grappled with similar thoughts.
"I think you're approaching the problem from the wrong direction," he said finally. "You're trying to find meaning by measuring yourself against the infinite, but infinity is not a useful standard for mortal beings. We exist at a human scale, and our meaning must be found at that same scale."
Alex turned away from the porthole to look at him. "What do you mean?"
"Consider the people aboard this train. March's joy when she captures a perfect photograph. Himeko's satisfaction at helping the Express reach its next destination safely. Pom-Pom's pride in maintaining our cars in perfect condition." Dan Heng gestured toward the door, beyond which the rest of the Express slept peacefully. "None of these things register on a cosmic scale, but they are no less real for being small."
"But in the grand scheme of things—"
"The grand scheme of things is an abstraction," Dan Heng interrupted gently. "It exists only in the minds of philosophers and the calculations of theorists. The small scheme of things—the daily kindnesses, the individual connections, the specific moments of beauty or understanding—that's where we actually live."
Alex considered this, watching the nebula shift colors as the Express continued its journey. "It still feels overwhelming. All of it. The Aeons, the Stellarons, the sheer scale of the conflicts we're supposed to help resolve."
"No one expects you to solve cosmic-level problems," Dan Heng said. "The Express crew helps where we can, when we can. Sometimes that means confronting galaxy-threatening crises, but more often it means smaller interventions—mediating a dispute, sharing information, offering assistance to travelers in need."
"Like rescuing mysterious spacers who appear out of nowhere?"
"Exactly like that." There was the ghost of a smile in Dan Heng's voice. "Your arrival on the Express may have been prompted by forces beyond our understanding, but your presence here has already had measurable positive effects. You helped March reconnect with her love of photography. You provided Asta's team with insights that advanced their research. You're learning to see the beauty in cosmic phenomena through your own unique perspective."
Alex felt some of the crushing weight lift from their shoulders. "You really think I'm helping?"
"I know you are. The universe is vast, yes, but it's also connected in ways we don't fully understand. Every positive action creates ripples that spread in directions we can't predict." Dan Heng stood, moving toward the door. "Your existence matters, Alex. Not because of any grand cosmic destiny, but because you're here, now, making choices that affect the people around you in ways both large and small."
"Dan Heng?" Alex called as he reached the door. "Thank you. For listening, for... for helping me remember that I'm human-sized."
"We all need reminding sometimes," he replied. "The tea in the galley is particularly good tonight, if you find yourself unable to sleep."
After he left, Alex remained by the porthole for a while longer, but the stars no longer seemed quite so forbidding. The universe was still vast, still incomprehensible, still largely indifferent to individual human concerns. But somewhere in that vastness, a magical train carried a small group of people who had chosen to care about each other, and that was enough to build a life around.
The nebula painted patterns of light across the walls of their quarters, and for the first time since leaving Herta Space Station, Alex felt like they might be able to sleep.