I open the door quietly, like he's still in there asleep and I don't want to wake him. It has that smell. The essential oil diffuser probably hasn't run in a few weeks, but it still smells sweet. Comforting, like you just want to sink in and spill all your secrets. His room had the balcony. Few in the temple do. A fluke. Maybe this room was meant for someone really revered. Instead it went to the black sheep, probably by accident. It's probably a long-forgotten feature.

I need sound and movement. I open the balcony door. The wind tears into the room, sending papers aflutter and chilling me to the bone. Sounds of rustling leaves from his plants. Neglected leaves turning yellow or brown, some hitching a ride on the wind to come tumbling into the room. But I don't care. It makes the room seem happier. Like there's something alive here.

"What are going to do with it all?" Quinlan asked me in the supply room when I went to gather cardboard boxes. I suppose I'll stash them in my room, in the closet. So I can't see it, but it's not lost. "You really should get rid of it," he said to me in a hushed tone. Like he was embarrassed for me. Possessions and attachments to material things are the more dirty of bad habits, but Qui-Gon was the only one who owned the word "collection". No one even questioned it. If these were found in my closet, I'd be given a talking to, like I had a problem. I was hoarding, they'd tell me.

I walk through the room slowly, brushing my fingertips over the stones, small tin cup, strings of prayer flags, spent ammunition shells, glittering jewelry. Each a relic to our missions. A working reference. The relics I recognize, shared missions. The ones I don't, I wasn't there. From his past? Or missions he went on without me during my time as his apprentice? I'd never know. There was never a key or journal to go with any of this. The information sealed in his head, now lost forever. Maybe it'll be up to me to create a written source. For the archives? That stinks of some kind of betrayal. These things were meant to be touched, enjoyed, lived with. Not tucked away behind glass or catalogued deep in the catacombs never to be seen by human eyes again.

I look around the room and sigh. Everything is unmoving, waiting. Particles of dust glitter gently through the air in the beams of light streaming through the blinds. This is going to take forever. A deep sadness sinks over me. Just get it done fast. Get out of this room. And don't take it, give it to the kid.

I kneel down at the first set of shelves and carefully but quickly start piling the items in one at a time. No rhyme or reason, no order, just whatever will fit into the spaces in between. I get to drawers of papers and feel utterly overwhelmed. Should I look through them, see what's worth salvaging and what can be thrown away? There's no way all of this will fit in my closet. I feel a deep lump in my throat and have to take a few deep breaths. Fuck it. I jump up to grab one of the huge garbage bags and start sweeping my arm through the shelves and dumping dislodged drawers upside down into the bag. A small note on lined paper flitters to the floor and my heart stops.

I drop the bag and carefully pick up the worn, browning note. "I have to do this. I may not be the right person, but The Young need somebody. Anybody. I'm so sorry. I love you so much and will always be grateful to you. I wish you the most happiness with your new Padawan. Love, Obi-Wan."

I sink down onto the bed, the note trembling in my fingers. I swear I see old stains of tears in the paper. I can't believe he kept this. I remember leaving that note on his bed in Melida/Daan. We fought all night, screamed at each other. That was the first time I saw him in tears.

"Fine, do what you want!" he turned and retreated into his room, slamming his door.

"It's not about what I want. It's about what needs to be done. You of all people should understand this!" I remember screaming after him, at a closed door.

And then I left. I wandered the streets all that night, soaked without a cloak in the rain, wrestling with extreme self-doubt. I thought I'd sneak back in that morning to pack, to avoid an awkward encounter. But when I got there his door was open. I peeked into an empty room, tangled sheets on his bed. He was already gone. I packed up my things in tears, and stalled at the door. I didn't want to leave it that way. I remember scribbling the note, panicked that he could return at any moment and was still too afraid to face him. I set the little paper on his bed and left.

And it's in my hands now, over ten years later. All that time lost. Those years I could have been with him. The years it took to earn back his trust, his love. Wasted.

But he kept it. It's been a member of his collection for all these years. Where each item and scrap of paper held a special meaning and memory to him. I broke his heart. But he still loved me. Probably never stopped. I squeeze the paper hard, almost crumpling it and hold it to my face. With closed eyes and tears gushing down my cheeks, I kiss the note hard. "God I miss you."