and they're all calling out my name

The Luma may be sentient, but they lack a sense of culture, outside of Rosalina's stories. They cling to Mama's skirts as if to be grounded; even stars must pin to the fabric of space, and find magnetism in compass's divine direction.

Meyneth watches with gaze painted bittersweet, the Observatory's perfect metals rippling rainbow in cause and care of each Star Bit's polishing shine. Even this efficient and marvelous place interplays sadly with the rest of the galaxy - galaxies, plural, each just a kiss away.

"Are you thinking of someone?"

"No one who isn't with me always, in my heart."