She stops her drawing, and stares out into space. Around them, endless star fields swirl, untouched by time's petty concerns. The depth of space is quiet, dark, like the soundless cold of winter, but without its pressing dangers. It feels like the bitter judgement of love.

"When Gene Cernan went up to the moon," she says, "he wrote his daughter's initials in the, y'know, the moon dust. The moon's got no atmosphere, no wind, no rain. Those letters are still up there. They're gonna be there for centuries."

She hopes that answers Lucifer's question.