"Will you tell me about him?"

The tiny holoprojector – a final parting gift from Qui-Gon Jinn, all those years ago – clicked off abruptly and Shmi turned sharply towards the door, unable to shake the feeling that she had been caught at something she wasn't supposed to. Which was ridiculous, of course, as Shmi very well knew, but the simple fact of it was that she hadn't immediately recognized the voice and had reacted on instinct.

As it was, she needn't have worried. It was only Beru Whitesun, come to stay for several days. Owen must have gone out, leaving her to entertain herself for a time. Foolish boy, Shmi thought fondly.

The girl seemed to immediately understand that she had interrupted something very private, and said, "Sorry, I should have announced myself. Knocked or something. Coughed. I'll leave you to it." She smiled brightly, and Shmi felt her heart warm. Beru was certainly something different, something that was bound to do her hard-headed stepson some good.

"No, no, please come in."

She placed the projector on the desk beside her and smiled as the younger woman pulled up a chair.

"Are you hungry, Beru?"

"Not really, thank you."

They had done this before, the companionable silences. Shmi was, by nature, a woman of few words, and Beru was more than happy to let her forcefulness lie dormant for a while at these times. Today, it seemed, was not one of them.

"That was him, wasn't it?"

"Sorry?"

"That was your son? I was – Owen might have mentioned you had another son before you married Cliegg."

Well that was very interesting. Owen liked hearing about Anakin, Shmi knew, or at least the part about the Jedi and the stranded ship and the podrace. He liked to hear the stories, but he too was a person of few words. It was, in its own strange way, what had drawn him to her back in Watto's shop all those years ago, as his father and the Toydarian shouted over the price of naviputers.

Shmi lay her hand fondly on the projector and clicked it to life. Blonde, smiling, face covered in dust but for the large circles around his eyes, dressed in rags, nine years old, and utterly triumphant. Just as he had left her.

"Yes," she finally answered. "Yes, that's my Ani."

There was silence for another moment, and then Beru's voice was hushed as she asked, "How old was he when… you know, when it happened?"

"When what happened?"

"He didn't die?"

Shmi raised her eyebrows. Owen really hadn't told her much, had he? Which left the question, how much exactly did Beru know about Shmi? She herself hadn't said a word, but that was the way of it on Tatooine. Life went on, death arrived eventually, and all that came between simply went with the territory.

"No, dear, Anakin is alive."

Fifteen years old, alive, and free.

She hadn't meant to say the last part out loud, but there was no mistaking the sudden furrow in Beru's brow. Ah, so she had been right. Shmi nodded her quiet affirmation of what she had just said, then waited.

Beru did not disappoint. She was of Tatooine, born and bred. She didn't have the luxury of shock any more than Shmi did. The young woman turned her head towards the holo of the podracing prodigy, and not a moment later the corners of her lips had resumed their rightful places in that trademark smile.

"Will you tell me about him?"