that I still hum your name in the silence,
between two waves, between two breaths.
That the cold wakes me each night, without fail,
and I reach for a familiar absence.
I forgot to tell you
that I see you in the shadows of trees,
in the reflection of flames,
in the faces of those I save to forget you.
I forgot to tell you
that I loved you until I broke,
until I faded,
until the only thing left to me... was your silence.
Summer still lent its warmth to the earth, even in the heart of night.
From time to time, a cricket chirped, an owl called in the distance, and the forest leaves stirred with lazy sighs. The air smelled of stone, cold embers, and fern-laced humidity.
Lying on a makeshift blanket over a bed of moss in a clearing on the heights, she opened her eyes before the dream even had the time to fade—without a word.
She never woke with a start. Just... too early. Always.
Her breath was calm, but everything in her remained taut, as if listening for an ancient echo. The night was still thick and peaceful—too peaceful to be honest. No noise, no ripple in the Force. And no sign of the Empire in over a week.
The sky above was clear and open, with a low, golden, almost-full moon casting an opaline glow across the earth. The kind of gentle night poets adore—but to her, it was merely another reminder of all she had lost.
Her gaze drifted toward her journal, lying atop a flat stone just a few inches away. A fresh sketch: a sleeping child cradled in a woman's arms. The lines were soft, precise—the kind drawn only in silence, when the world is asleep.
Her long, pale hair was still tousled from the breeze, spilling across the dark grass like strands of moonlight. One lock clung to her cheek, where sweat—or tears—had left a trail. Her haori slipped from her shoulder as she sat up.
The fire she had let die through the night no longer glowed, remembered only by its outline. The embers had gone cold, forming a black circle on the ground. No smoke. No warmth. Like a heart extinguished, but still present.
She didn't have a single credit to her name. But she was used to that.
Sleeping under the stars didn't frighten her, nor did it shame her.
The ground was more honest than most of the beds she'd ever been offered.
She inhaled slowly, resting a hand on her chest. A fragile breath, one she held despite the stabbing ache in her lungs—an ache that returned with every dawn.
She had nothing to heal. At least, not today.
So she endured.
She rose with the fluid grace of a shadow.
There was still an hour before dawn.
Silent, she packed away her journal, rolled up the blanket, and checked that nothing had been left behind. She never left a trace. Not because she was running. But because even the smallest oversight could cost dearly.
Her pale, slender fingers paused for a moment over the ring she still wore, then over the worn pendant hanging on a silver chain pressed to her heart.
She gently closed her hand around it—then let go.
She followed the edge of the clearing, her footsteps brushing over stone and tall grass.
She wore simple, practical clothing—loose enough to conceal, flexible enough to move. Her black haori trailed behind her, embroidered with subtle patterns barely visible under the moonlight.
Farther ahead, the terrain rose to a rocky outcrop.
She climbed in silence, as she had learned to do as a child, before she even had words to name the world. Back then, survival didn't need titles.
Only instinct—when to move, when to breathe, and when to let the world forget you.
At the cliff's edge, the wind greeted her.
Light. Salty.
The ocean stretched below like a sheet of ink beneath the moonlight—vast, still for once. Stars mirrored in the surface like extinguished memories, and the horizon looked unreal, blurred between cloud and sea.
She stopped there. Simply. A silhouette of black against a backdrop of silver.
Moonlight grazed her face without ever warming it.
Her eyes—clear, vast—stared into the infinite with a quiet, almost vacant intensity.
The view was sublime. Eternal.
And yet... she felt nothing.
Nothing but that ancient hollow inside her—
that emptiness no song, no breath, no sunrise had ever managed to fill.
A single tear, warm, slipped down her cheek.
Her face did not move.
She was used to it.
With a simple motion, she drew her haori closed, adjusted the strap of her bag, and turned her back on the horizon.
Dawn was near. And in the village below, she would soon be needed.
Children to heal. Elders to soothe.
Simple pains, tangible ones. Wounds that asked only for warmth, a song, a little care.
Other lives to mend.
Other pain—ones that were not her own.
The clearing lay still. Too still.
She turned from the sea.
Tightened her grip on her bag.
And walked into the wind of morning.