The late afternoon sun had cast long, slanted beams through the small room Varan and Asa shared as their home. Outside, the streets of Aurora's Reach had grown quieter, the energy of the day giving way to the calm of evening. Inside, however, the air was thick with the weight of something unspoken, an invisible burden that Varan carried with him every day.

It had been one of those days—the kind where pain didn't ebb and flow like waves but instead beat steadily, an unrelenting pulse beneath his skin. His joints ached from old injuries he'd never let heal properly, and his mind swirled with the ghosts of his past. The screams, the betrayals, the unforgivable choices—they lingered, a shadow that refused to let him go. None of it was new. He'd learned how to push through, how to wear a mask of composure, but today it felt heavier than usual.

Rising from his bed, Varan had moved slowly, his body stiff and groaning in protest. He'd been awake for hours already, and though the day had been filled with activity, his muscles still felt sluggish, weighed down as though he were carrying the galaxy itself. His thoughts drifted, disjointed and fragmented, but the noise in his head was drowned out by the grounding familiarity of their modest home. His gaze lingered on the scattered tools across the workbench, the stack of unorganized datapads, the incomplete lightsaber parts gathering dust in a corner.

He'd pulled on his jacket, its fabric coarse against his skin. For a moment, his hand lingered on the doorframe before he stepped outside. Aurora's Reach greeted him with the soft golden hues of evening. Warm light spilled from windows and doorways, mingling with the comforting aroma of meals being prepared. It was a quiet peace that clashed against the chaos of Varan's mind, a peace that reminded him of what he'd lost so long ago.

Throughout the day, he'd gone through the motions. He'd spent hours at Bisk Vi'kiro's droid repair shop, tinkering with circuits and gears. The tasks were simple enough, requiring little thought, just enough to keep his hands busy and his mind from wandering too far into the darker corners of his memory. He'd inspected and repaired droids, ensuring they were operational, though it was clear to anyone who looked closely that his heart wasn't truly in it. The weight of his past pressed down on him, making every action feel heavier, every moment seem drained of purpose.

Later, he'd ventured into the Spirewood, where the old Jedi temple stood hidden among the towering trees. For years, it had been his refuge, a place where he could reconnect with the Force—or avoid it, depending on the day. Chaladdik had been there as always, his massive Wookiee frame a comforting presence. The Wookiee's rumbling growls and soft grunts filled the silence as they worked together to maintain the ancient structure. Yet even Chaladdik's steady companionship couldn't quiet the storm in Varan's heart. The echoes of Order 66, the memory of blood and betrayal, followed him like a shadow, always just a step behind.

By the time evening had rolled around, he'd managed to keep himself distracted enough to survive the day. But the moment he stepped back into their small, dimly lit home, the mask he wore began to slip. His exhaustion was palpable in the heaviness of his steps, the slump of his shoulders. His green eyes, usually sharp and focused, were distant now, as if he were staring into a void only he could see.

Asa had been at the workbench when he returned, hunched over a datapad with the kind of concentration that made the rest of the world fade away. The warm light of a nearby lamp illuminated her face, casting soft shadows across her brown eyes. She didn't look up immediately, but Varan could feel her watching him, her quiet concern cutting through the silence.

"Hey," she'd said softly, her voice gentle, offering an opening. "How was your day?"

He'd forced a smile, small and tired. "Same as always," he replied, his voice rough, betraying more than he intended. "The usual."

Asa had studied him for a moment, her gaze sharp and knowing. She'd always been able to see through him, even when he tried to hide his struggles. Today, she'd seen something deeper in the weariness etched across his face.

Without pressing further, Asa had stood and grabbed her jacket. "I'm going to Spire's Edge," she'd said matter-of-factly. "I'll be back soon."

Varan had nodded, watching as she slipped out the door. He'd lowered himself into a chair at the workbench, his hands resting motionlessly on his knees. The silence left in her wake had been suffocating, amplifying the dark thoughts creeping into his mind—the guilt, the loss, the inevitability of more pain to come.

When the door finally creaked open again, Asa had returned, holding a small container that radiated warmth and carried the unmistakable scent of fried food. She'd set it down in front of him with a smile that was brighter, lighter than before.

"Thought you might like this," she'd said, brushing off any protest he might have made. "Moro sent it over."

Varan had stared at the container for a moment before looking up at Asa. Her eyes were still filled with concern, but there was something else there too—a quiet determination to lighten his burden, even if only a little.

"I didn't feel like cooking," she adds with a small shrug. "You can't survive on nothing but caf and the occasional ration bar, right?"

Varan almost laughed at that, the sound escaping him as a small, pained chuckle. "No," he agrees softly, his voice almost like a whisper. "Not a good diet."

Asa sat across from him, watching him carefully as he dug into the food. There's a comfort in it—more than the food itself. It's the fact that she's here, doing this for him, not because she has to, but because she wants to. He doesn't deserve it. He knows that. He hasn't earned this kindness.

The room was quiet except for the soft clink of utensils and the sound of Asa's voice, which began to fill the space.

"I was reading about the High Republic again," she said, breaking the silence. "There was this group of explorers, and they went into uncharted space to map out new worlds. It was before the Republic had any real control in the Outer Rim, and they were doing everything just based on instinct and hope."

Varan listened, nodding here and there, his gaze still distant, though he's trying. Trying for her. Trying to give her the attention she deserves. Asa is fascinated by the explorers, by their courage and their optimism. She talks about them as if their story is the key to everything she's striving for—the connection to something greater, something more meaningful than the life they lead now.

Asa continued, her words animated and full of excitement. "I think that's why they fascinate me. They were facing something bigger than them, but they kept going anyway. They just kept moving forward, even when things seemed impossible."

Varan doesn't know how to respond to that. The idea of moving forward, of fighting through the impossible, seems so far out of reach for him. But he doesn't say that. Instead, he listeneed, letting her words wash over him like the rain that's started to fall outside.

When Asa finally falls silent, Varan glances up at her, his expression unreadable. There's something in the way she's looking at him now, something softer. It's as if she's trying to give him permission to be a part of that optimism, to move forward with her.

He doesn't have the words for it, but he offers a small, weary smile. "Maybe I'll try to keep up with you, kid."

Asa's smile is bright, full of unspoken understanding. "You don't have to keep up," she says gently. "We'll go together."

For the first time that day, Varan felt a little lighter, the weight on his chest easing just a fraction. He doesn't know what the future holds, or if he'll ever fully escape the darkness that follows him. But for this moment, with Asa here, sharing stories and food, he allows himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he'll be okay.