The fire dies to embers around midnight. You should go to bed. You don't. Instead, you lean the seat back and look up through the mesh of the rooftop tent at a sky doing what skies did long before cities washed them out. The Milky Way isn't a concept here. It's a presence — thick and textured, like spilled sugar across black velvet. You forget your phone exists. You remember that you exist. The stars, indifferent and ancient, keep you company until sleep finally comes.