It was the evening of the Galactic Moon Festival. The last rays of the suns colored the desert in shifting waves of crimson gold and a pale moon peaked timidly over the horizon, as though it too was anticipating the height of the holiday.

While Owen Lars stood just outside his homestead in the suns' last light, seeing to the last preparations for the trip into town, his nephew, Luke, was inside the sandstone hut, putting the last touches on his costume. He was rather proud of it, he'd chosen the material, an old bantha-hide blanket, and a well-worn tunic he'd soon grow out of, and his Aunt Beru had put it together, though she disliked the holiday so much, and refused to celebrate it herself.

In her words, such a holiday was "only fit for the Hutts and their lot." But by and by, with much pleading on Luke's part, and much coaxing on Uncle Owen's, Aunt Beru had given in. And with great reluctance, Luke was allowed to attend the celebration, provided that it didn't distract from his chores or his schooling.

Sealing the robe to the tunic with a last stitch, Aunt Beru stepped back, and couldn't help smiling as she surveyed her handiwork. The newly fashioned robe, though worn from use and discolored in places, suited the boy marvelously, and would do well to shield him from the chill of the dessert night. Sewn tight o his tunic, it was sure not to fly away, or be dropped and lost in the boy's good time

Luke grinned up at her, looking comical, with one missing tooth beneath the reddened dust mop he'd tied round his chin as a beard. Impatient to take the new attire for a spin, he hopped down from his little stool, and darted out of the room, the tattered cape billowing behind him as he ran. Making him look, Beru thought anxiously, very much like his father had when he'd arrived on the farm some years ago.

Luke tumbled back into the room in a flurry, having realized he'd forgotten to thank his aunt and kiss her goodbye. Stopping in the doorframe, he took in his aunt's wide-eyed fright, and his grin widened,

"If you're scared, I can't wait to see what the other kids'll think!" he cried and bounced over to her delightedly, planting a sweet kiss on her cheek before he hurried outdoors to show his uncle.

Uncle Owen was about ready to leave when Luke flew out of the house in his finished costume. Owen waited, arms outstretched, and scooped the boy into his arms, lifting him into the speeder with ease, "You ready?" he asked, eyes twinkling. Though the festival was a recent tradition, Uncle Owen had no trouble getting in the spirit of the holiday and was doing all he could to make sure Luke would have a good time.

Luke nodded, wrapping the great robe tightly round himself, so that he looked more like a Jawa than anything else, but for the false beard dwarfing his little face. Owen had at first though it a strange choice of costume, though he couldn't disagree with its eeriness. And when Luke had told him that there was nothing in the world, he found so frightening as the old man, he'd had to agree. After all, a little healthy fear would be good for the boy and help to keep him out of trouble as he got older.

With this in mind, the two waved goodbye to Aunt Beru, and sped away, over great tides of desert sands, racing the last setting sun, and chasing the lights of the Anchorhead settlement. Luke curled up excitedly in the backseat. Tonight, was to be his first night away from home. As they couldn't make the return journey in darkness, for fear of the Sand People, Uncle Owen had traveled ahead the day prior, and reserved a room at the nicest place he could afford as a treat for Luke.

"Don't see the point in being frugal if we can't afford to spoil our boy every now and again," he'd laughed to Beru when he'd arrived home that same afternoon.

When they arrived, the town was aglow with the light sticks of trick-or-treaters, already out and about, and the eerie flicker of lanterns atop headless straw men. While Uncle Owen took care to lock up the sand speeder, Luke wandered a little ways off, drawn to the peddlers, scattered about the dusty road, by their colorful decorations, and funny looking bones wearing stormtrooper helmets. Luke gazed distractedly over one of the many displays filled with trick-or-treat devices.

Secretly, the boy wished he could own one of the precious devices, but he knew they were an unnecessary expense, and Uncle Owen had already spent so much on the trip and the inn. If he could only get ahold of some moon coins! But Anchorhead was a poor settlement, and his friend, Deak, who considered himself an authority on the festival, had told him that the residents handed out sweets instead of coins.

"Oh well," he shrugged to himself, and scratched his false beard.

Sensing that someone was coming up behind him, Luke assumed it was Uncle Owen and turned with a grin, eager to find Deak and Windy so they could get started.

"Hello there," a thick accented voice greeted him.

Suddenly finding himself unable to move, Luke croaked in fright, "Old Ben," the boy could never place it, but whenever he and his uncle passed the old man, whether in the market or in the speeder, he was overcome by a feeling of foreboding in the pit of his stomach. It made him want to retch. It was an overwhelming feeling of death and of sadness.

Ben, as he was called now, looked the boy over and stroked his bushy greying beard, smiling amusedly, "The beard is a little off, but I can see what you're going for," he chuckled, which frightened Luke all the more. The sarcasm made him want to cry, but he hardened his face into a frown to stop himself.

But as the old man caught sight of his face, the twinkle in his laughing eyes was replaced by a glint of recognition, and a glimmer of sorrow. The foreboding sense softened a little, which surprised Luke, and he chanced a look into the old hermit's eyes. The feeling was still death, and sadness, but these things were now colored with loneliness, and another thing, which Luke in his limited vocabulary, could only describe as missing someone very much.

Old Ben was lonely. Perhaps his father had died, as Luke's had, or perhaps he missed the rest of his family, very far away. Luke tried to understand, he remembered all the times he'd asked Uncle Owen about his father and received no answer, and he grinned up at the sad old man with his widest, most comforting grin. He still hadn't the courage to speak to the man, and only hoped with all his heart that Old Ben understood what he meant.

The Old Man's smile grew a little brighter, and to Luke's utter shock, he produced a handful of coins from his robe sleeve, extending them to the boy in his rough hand.

"If you intend to scare anyone Young Ben, I believe you'll need one of those," Old Ben nodded to the peddler's display, and pressed the coins into Luke's hand. Then he'd turned to leave, not walking five paces before something small crashed into him from behind, nearly knocking him off his feet. A pair of little arms flung themselves round him in a tight embrace, and a little voice whispered,

"Thank you,"

In a tone which made Old Ben recall a boy from Tatooine he'd known long ago. He smiled at the boy, and unable to speak through the lump in his throat nodded kindly, before disappearing with a sweep of his robe.

Luke purchased the trick-or-treat device, and ran back to his Uncle Owen, feeling that he would indeed need the device, as Old Ben had turned out not to be so scary after all.