Seven years later, Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi sits in a storage closet, a stowaway in the personal Noobian starship of Senator Amidala. Just as he knew she would, Padmé was about to lead him to his fallen Padawan. He cringed inwardly as he thought of that word: "fallen." Though he had to keep hope, he knew in his heart that Anakin was, indeed, lost.
It hurt him to do what he knew he must. Killing Anakin would not only pain him, but it would also hurt Padmé . . . the woman he still loved. How could he take life from the one who had helped give life to Padmé's child?
The ship turned suddenly and began to make its descent. Within his soul, Obi-Wan could feel the fire without. The lava of Mustafar, a heaven for the dark. Only now, with the starship falling rapidly did the Master remember Padmé's words from a lifetime before. Written in a delicate hand and delivered with a single, pink Noobian Rose.
From within the deep folds of his dark brown outer robe, Obi-Wan pulled a rose. It was old and dry now, kept from crumbling by the Force that surrounded it. Still, even now, the faintest fragrance of her remained.
"I'm sorry Padmé."