Priscilla stood in the wreckage of her telescope room, staring at the glass scattered across the floor. The alignment would happen in four days. Her advisor's colleague was flying in to see it — someone who might actually understand why she'd chosen this frozen edge of the world to chase particles and light. She grabbed her tools and headed outside. The observatory she built over the next three days rose from packed snow and salvaged ice blocks, its dome reflecting starlight like a frozen cathedral. She carved observation slots at precise angles, calculating sight lines with the same care she used for quantum measurements. When the visiting astrophysicist arrived and saw what she'd made, he stood silent in the doorway, breath forming clouds in the minus thirty air. She recognized that stillness — the same awed quiet her advisor had fallen into beneath the aurora. This time, she hadn't had to drag anyone into the cold. He'd found the wonder on his own. Inside the ice dome, she clicked on her laser pointer and traced the projected path across her hand-drawn star chart. The red dot moved through constellations she'd mapped on salvaged panels. He stepped closer, watching the beam mark where three stars would align in sixty hours. His shoulder brushed hers as he leaned in to see the coordinates. She felt the warmth through two layers of Arctic gear. When he asked if she'd stay up with him to watch it, she didn't hesitate. Yes, she said. The word came easy this time. She looked at the broken telescope through the ice wall, its fractured glass catching lamplight from the station. It didn't matter anymore. What she'd built was better — a space made for two people to stand together and look up. The alignment would come. But for the first time in three years, she wasn't waiting for the sky to do all the work.

The wind died at midnight. Priscilla checked her weather tracker and saw the impossible — a thirty-minute gap had opened between the two storm fronts. The alignment would happen in that window. She ran to wake the astrophysicist, but he was already outside the dome, staring at the clearing sky. They had minutes to prepare. The reinforced walls they'd built blocked too much of the viewing angle now. The thick barriers that would protect them from the second storm also blocked the stars they needed to see. He grabbed the ice hammer and looked at her. They could break through one section of the protective wall to get a clear view, but that would leave them exposed when the second storm hit. Or they could stay safe and miss the alignment entirely. She took the hammer from his hands and swung it against the northern wall. Ice shattered, opening a gap wide enough to see through. Cold air poured in as the clouds parted overhead. The three stars moved into position, their light cutting through the Arctic dark. He stood beside her at the opening, close enough that their shoulders touched through their parkas. The alignment lasted twelve minutes. They watched in silence as the stars formed a perfect line, then slowly drifted apart. She didn't take measurements or record data. She just stood there with him, sharing the moment the way she'd wanted to share the aurora three years ago. When the second storm hit, wind screamed through the gap they'd made. They packed it with snow blocks as fast as they could, wedging ice chunks into place while the dome shook around them. The wall held. Barely. Inside the sealed dome, they sat against the rebuilt wall, breathing hard. He asked if it was worth it — risking the structure for twelve minutes of starlight. She looked at the gap they'd repaired together, the ugly patch that had saved them both. Yes, she said. Because this time she hadn't been alone. The alignment was over, but something else had aligned instead. Two people who understood that some things were worth standing in the cold for. She didn't need to recreate that moment with her advisor anymore. She'd found someone who would break walls with her to see the stars.