As time passed and the planet's seasons shifted, Rhea came up with an idea. "We should celebrate," she said one morning, her eyes bright. "A whole year here deserves a festival." Everyone jumped on board, hungry for something to break up routine and remind them how far they'd come.
The system seemed to understand exactly what they needed. Soon, the shelter was glowing with soft lanterns, gentle music drifting through the halls. They dug through storage and pieced together costumes—old scarves, bits of foil, anything colorful. The kids painted each other's faces with streaks of wild color, running through the halls and shrieking with laughter.
Dinner that night was a feast of garden vegetables, bread, and sweet fruit, everyone crowded together at long tables. After the plates were cleared and the little ones tucked in, the adults wandered into a sunroom the system had quietly prepared—lanterns swaying overhead, the windows full of stars.
Someone opened a bottle of wine. At first, they just talked and laughed, but as the night wore on, the lines between friends and lovers blurred in the low, golden light. There were kisses—some familiar, some new—hands finding each other, laughter warming the room. Eventually, the celebration spilled onto soft blankets and tangled limbs, a night full of tenderness and heat.
For Alex, lying there in the glow of lanterns and the arms of people he loved, it felt like more than just survival. It was proof that, even far from home, they could create something beautiful together—a tradition, a family, a reason to hope