The path did not end.

Boxy expected the glowing trail to stop at the edge of the Winter Workshop valley, like every other path had done before. Instead, it lifted gently from the snow, rising into the air like a ribbon caught by an invisible breeze.

Gluebert stopped so suddenly his hat slid forward over his eyes. He pushed it back with a huff. “That is new.”

The map in Boxy’s hands shimmered. The page no longer showed mountains or forests. It glowed like the night sky itself, speckled with tiny points of light that were not drawn, but alive.

Pete leaned in close. He raised a sign: THE PATH IS FLOATING.

Above them, the blinking star pulsed again. Three quick flashes. One long glow. It no longer felt distant. It felt deliberate.

The floating path curled upwards, leading them towards the highest ridge ahead. Boxy felt warmth through the satchel at his side, as if the small badge from the Winter Workshop was quietly humming along with the map.

They climbed.

The snow thinned as they rose. The air sharpened. The candy striped trees fell away behind them, fading into pale outlines, like illustrations disappearing as a page slowly turned.

At the top of the ridge stood something Boxy had never seen before.

It looked like a station, but not for trains. Pale stone curved into dark metal arches. Towers rose like giant telescopes, angled towards the sky. Above the wide entrance, carved deep into the stone, was the spiral and gear symbol, surrounded by stars.

A sign gleamed faintly beneath it:

STARLIGHT STATION

Gluebert lowered his voice. “So the stories were true.”

“You knew about this place,” Boxy said.

“I knew of it,” Gluebert replied. “A station between layers. A place that watches rather than travels.”

Pete had found a railing and was gripping it tightly. He raised a sign with his free hand: I WOULD LIKE TO GO BACK TO THE WARM WORKSHOP PLEASE.

Boxy smiled gently. “Let’s just see what it shows us.”

The floating path drifted towards the doors and slipped through the narrow gap between them. The doors opened with a quiet sigh, as if the Station itself was exhaling.

Inside, the air was cool and still. Not empty, but attentive. It smelled faintly of dust, ink, and cold stone.

The floor beneath their feet was tiled with constellations. Each star glowed softly, and when Boxy stepped on one, it pulsed as if it recognised him.

The hall rose high above them, filled with hanging lanterns shaped like planets. Some were smooth and round. Some had paper rings. Others were uneven and lopsided, as if made by hand and imagination rather than rules.

Pete floated.

He did not mean to. One careful step forward and his feet lifted cleanly from the floor. His scarf drifted upward. His wooden legs dangled. He began to rotate slowly, like a mobile in a nursery.

Gluebert pointed at him and laughed. “Oh that is excellent.”

Pete spun once more and raised a sign mid rotation: NOT FUNNY.

Boxy grabbed Pete’s belt loop and tugged him back down. Pete landed with a quiet wooden clonk and did not let go of Boxy again for quite some time.

“Gravity is selective here,” Boxy said.

Gluebert nodded, suddenly serious. “The Station balances itself. Between places. Between rules.”

Pete raised a new sign: I WANT HEAVY MODE.

A voice spoke from the shadows.

“Visitors.”

They turned.

An old figure stood near a vast circular window, its back to them, framed by the stars beyond. Its robes were the colour of midnight, stitched with tiny constellations that shifted gently as it moved. In one hand it held a long pointer, its tip glowing in a sharp white line.

The figure turned, revealing a face lined like folded paper, eyes bright and watchful.

“I am the Keeper of the Station,” it said. “And you have brought the map farther than it has travelled in a very long time.”

Boxy stepped forward. “We followed the path.”

The Keeper’s gaze flicked briefly to Boxy’s satchel. “Winter Workshop mark,” it murmured. “So the Frostcore still turns.”

“Thanks to us,” Gluebert said, attempting casual pride.

Pete raised a sign: I DID THE PUSHING.

The Keeper studied Pete. “Wooden. Silent. Observant.” A pause. “A useful combination.”

Pete blinked and raised: THANK YOU I THINK.

“Come,” said the Keeper. “If you have reached the Station, you must understand what it watches.”

It led them into a vast chamber beneath a domed ceiling. There was no glass above them. The stars were simply there, glittering as if the room opened directly into the sky.

At the centre stood a great circular table. Light hovered above it, forming constellations that drifted, connected, and separated again.

“This is the Star Mapper,” said the Keeper.

Pete stepped closer, eyes wide. His sign was careful and small: WOW.

“Yes,” said the Keeper softly. “That is the correct response.”

The pointer tapped the table. Stars linked together, forming shapes.

“Stories,” Boxy whispered.

“Instructions,” the Keeper corrected. “For travellers who move between layers.”

Gluebert leaned in. “So the stars are not decoration.”

“No,” said the Keeper. “They are routes.”

Boxy saw it then. Hidden among the glowing lines was the spiral and gear once more. Subtle, but unmistakable.

The Keeper traced a glowing route. “Your journey has followed the outer ring. Forest. Caverns. Hall. Festival. Workshop.”

Images flickered briefly above the table. Boxy felt a tightening in his chest as he recognised them.

“The map watches,” said the Keeper. “It must. Without tracking, travellers become lost.”

Pete raised a sign: IT LISTENS TOO MUCH.

“If it helps,” said the Keeper dryly, “it only listens when it needs to.”

Pete did not look reassured.

The Keeper moved to the great window. Outside, the stars looked closer now. Sharper. More real.

“There is a signal,” the Keeper said. “Not from Crafteria. From beyond its layer.”

Boxy’s heart thudded. “The blinking star.”

“Yes.”

They walked down a corridor lined with vast windows. The lantern planets swayed gently overhead.

At the end, a viewing chamber opened before them.

A planet drifted outside the glass.

Not large. Not finished. Swirls of green and blue wrapped across its surface. Pale white patches gleamed softly. Around it floated small moons, one glowing with a calm, steady light.

“It is new,” Boxy breathed.

“A planet nursery,” said the Keeper. “Creation begins simply.”

Gluebert stared. “Our moon,” he murmured. “Always there. Quietly holding things together.”

Pete raised a sign: THE MOON IS NICE.

Boxy thought of the Hollow Hall. Of shadows watching from the walls. This light felt different. Not hiding. Not hungry. Just waiting.

“You did not come here only to look,” said the Keeper. “You came because the path continues.”

The Keeper gestured upwards. A circular hatch sat high in the ceiling.

The floor shifted. A hidden platform rose smoothly, carrying something with it.

A rocket.

Not metal. Not roaring. Its panels were polished card and sturdy wooden ribs. One section bore neat stitches of glowing thread where it had been carefully repaired. Its body was cream with dark green detailing, warm and familiar.

“It is not for flying,” said the Keeper. “It is for crossing.”

The glowing path lifted from the map and curled towards the rocket, locking into place.

Boxy swallowed. “Then we go.”

Gluebert adjusted his hat. “If I freeze in space, do not use me as furniture.”

Pete raised a sign: I AM VERY CONCERNED.

They climbed aboard.

The rocket hummed. The Station answered.

The stars leaned closer.

The hatch opened.

Space opened with it.

The rocket rose silently, drifting into darkness threaded with colour. Dust and light curled past the window like ribbons.

The Starlight Station shrank behind them, a jewel balanced between worlds.

Pete floated gently in his straps. Gluebert stared out, beard trembling. “All right,” he said quietly. “That is impressive.”

The map warmed. New symbols wrote themselves across the page.

Pete leaned over. WHERE ARE WE GOING.

Boxy read aloud. “The Cosmic… Circus.”

Gluebert stared. “A circus.”

“In space,” said Boxy.

Pete’s sign appeared slowly: ABSOLUTELY NOT.

Ahead, darkness rippled.

Lights burst into view. Rings. Arches. Banners drifting where nothing should exist. Music drifted softly through the cabin.

Boxy pressed his hands to the glass. “That looks like…”

“A circus,” Gluebert finished.

Far within the lights, something moved. A tall shape. Hollow eyes watching.

Somewhere in the glittering dark, something laughed.

The rocket tilted towards the glow.