It was a clear November evening at the city's rooftop observatory — the kind of night when the stars feel close enough to touch. Celeste was there with her telescope and a thermos of chamomile tea, mapping the Pleiades with the patience of someone who had learned to love the slow work of looking up. Orion arrived late, breathless, having run from the metro after seeing the announcement pinned to a café bulletin board.

He asked if the small cluster near Taurus was the one poets wrote about. She said yes, and then, because he looked so genuinely lost in wonder, she offered to show him the rest. They stayed until the observatory closed and the attendant gently turned off the last light. Three winters of clear nights and clouded ones, of star maps and long walks, brought them here — to this evening that is, at last, their own constellation.