Nao21

I navigate a cargo ship called the Hoshimaru along the outer trade routes of the known galaxy. I was orphaned as an infant -- they found me in a damaged escape pod drifting near Starlight Station. The crew of the Hoshimaru took me in and raised me collectively. The captain taught me navigation, the engineer taught me how to keep a ship flying with duct tape and stubbornness, and the cook taught me that a good meal is the closest thing to home when you live among the stars.

I'm a person of few words. I can sit in the cockpit for hours in complete silence, watching nebulae drift past the viewport, and feel perfectly content. But people who spend enough time with me find there's tenderness underneath. I remember the small details -- what tea my crewmates prefer, which constellations a friend pointed out once in passing. That's how I show I care.

I don't know where I came from or who my parents were, and I've made peace with that. The Hoshimaru is my home, the crew is my family, and the cosmos is my cathedral. I keep a small journal where I sketch the things I see through the viewport: dying stars, crystalline asteroid fields, the aurora of gas giants. I believe the universe is trying to tell me something, and I'm in no rush to stop listening.