They are on a planet with a deep orange sky, like London at sunset, in the market of a raucous shantytown erupting in the space between skyscrapers. He’s looking at alien circuit boards, she’s looking at alien hair ornaments and feeling a bit annoyed with him, when she hears his voice. His old voice.
“Oi!” he’s saying to somebody. “I’ll have you know that took longer to make than you’ve been alive!”
She drops the flowered elastics and runs.
The next aisle along, there’s a stall selling objects of indistinct purpose, made of metal twisted into compact, convoluted shapes, all gunmetal grey. There’s a selection of chains and cases and display stands, and an alien the color and shape of a peeled twig, glaring fondly at a slightly shorter alien who’s clutching a small one in both hands.
“Let it alone, there’s a good girl,” says the taller alien, in his voice, manifestly fond.
Lots of planets have a North.