Shepard entered the Starboard Observation Deck for one of her daily chats with Samara. As always she felt like she was intruding, despite Samara's welcome each time. She stood behind her and watched the stars for a moment through the observation window. So many stars - brilliant diamonds strewn by the handful across a background of deepest, darkest velvet. Too many to count, too many to name.
"Shepard." Samara gestured and she sat cross-legged beside her.
They stared, together, out of the window into the depths of the galaxy.
"Why do you sit here, Samara?" Shepard asked. "Why stare out at the stars all the time?"
Samara considered. "When I was very young, my mother told me that the stars would hold all my secrets. I could tell them anything, and they wouldn't judge me, wouldn't condemn, but would accept. It became a habit, as a maiden, to go somewhere where I could see the stars and tell them of my worries and fears, of my dreams and hopes. The stars were always there as I journeyed, constant companions, silent and understanding."
Shepard smiled. "My mother told me that when she was a little girl on Earth, her mother would point out the stars in the sky, and tell her to wait until she saw one falling. And then she was supposed to make a wish, and it would come true."
"A wish, Shepard? Stars do not grant wishes. It is up to the individual to make their own wish come true."
"Yes. But the stars also do not hold secrets."
"I know." Samara raised her hands eloquently. "But it is comforting to think that, nonetheless. The galaxy is vast, and even a little comfort is good."
Shepard nodded. "I know," she whispered.
Together they looked out upon the void, at the myriad of burning spheres of incandescent gasses, waiting silently and patiently for a secret to hold, a wish to fulfill.
