The storm raged over Coruscant, its fury mirrored in the heart of the Jedi Temple. Lightning illuminated the grand halls, casting fleeting shadows that danced across ancient stone and towering pillars. Rain hammered against the temple's windows, a relentless percussion that underscored the night's turmoil.

Meetra Surik stood alone on the temple's terrace, her maroon cloak clinging to her form, soaked through by the downpour. Her short blonde hair plastered to her forehead as she gazed out onto the tempest, her eyes reflecting the chaos above. The redeeming and vibrant Jedi seemed almost a specter amidst the storm, standing a figure etched with sorrow and solitude.

— The galaxy always finds peace. She murmured, her voice nearly lost to the wind.

— Yet, there are storms persist... somewhere.

She closed her eyes, seeking solace in the Force. But where others found harmony, she encountered only echoes—resonant voids that pulsed with the memories of Malachor V. The Mass Shadow Generator's activation, the screams of countless lives extinguished, the severing of bonds she once held dear—all coalesced into a wound that time refused to heal.

— I thought the silence would stop.

She said, more to herself than to the storm. Thunder cracked overhead, a deafening reminder of nature's wrath. Meetra flinched, the sound echoing the turmoil within. She recalled the faces of those she'd lost, the trust betrayed, the exile endured. Each memory a dagger, each regret a weight upon her soul.

— I thought... with the Sith gone, with everything we fought for, the echoes would quiet.

The wind tore at her words, but she didn’t need to say them aloud. The wound within her—the one the Force could never fully heal—screamed loud enough. She had reforged her connection, rebuilt the shattered pieces of herself, but something vital was still broken. The galaxy called her Jedi again. She wore the robes. She stood where others could not. But inside...

— I’m still there. She whispered.

— Still floating in the wreckage.

She closed her eyes. Beneath the thunder, she could almost hear them—so many voices, lost in the storm of Malachor, screaming, judging, begging. Her hands clenched reflexively.

— They made me into this. She muttered, her voice cracking.

— But I walked the path. I chose it. I let them fall.

She looked over her shoulder briefly, her expression momentarily softening at the thought of you—one of the few left from those old days, when everything was fire and conviction.

— I was supposed to be more than this. We all were.

You who had never abandoned her, not in the wars, not even now. The closest reminder that she had once been whole.

— I should feel something. But I don’t. Not the way I should. Not even when you’re near.

The rain only answered with more violence, striking against the stone like the drumbeat of an approaching army. She said, eyes falling to the durasteel beneath her boots.

— It’s like I’ve been emptied out... and all that’s left is the shell.