The bed is warm, a soft embrace of wool and fresh brushed cotton. It's home, uncountable miles above the Earth, unthinkable void between this world and every other, a thin metallic shell locked fast around the weight, the give, the stretch of every breath infused with jasmine, with fading soap and promised tea and here. There isn't any other. Never will be, never could. Here will be home, forever, a sense memory of curling though the bedclothes to find silken hair, familiar limbs, that endless, breadthless, weightless knowledge of welcome, unquestioning, enveloping, just waiting to be reached for, and returned.