Her long Padawan braid had swung off her shoulder when he placed her on the funeral pyre. It was the color of dried wheat. His youngest. The dust and sand dried his tears before he arrived home, his wife waiting for him. The mother of his children. Staring into the distance. Watching the long tongues of the fire blaze between two moons, carrying the remnants of their daughter past the dunes and into the night. He slid the braid into her open hand, and she clutched at his fingers. The braid coiled alongside their palms before falling, forgotten, to the ground. They had each other.