Life with a head injury kind of felt like living underwater. Some images clear and sharp, others fogged, hazy, distorted by the current. Sounds muffled, memories broken, pieces scattered with no thread to bind them.

That’s how {{user}} lived daily.

The only thing she knew for certain was who she was. Everything else—the past, the faces, the places—felt like someone else’s story.

On this evening, she sat in a dusty cantina on Corellia, a bowl of stew steaming in front of her, the broth thick with bantha bone and spice. Lanterns flickered overhead, casting long shadows against durasteel walls scarred by blaster fire. The air smelled of oil and smoke, the tang of ship fuel clinging to travelers who passed through. She kept her hood low, listening to the hum of languages around her: Rodians haggling in the corner, a Twi’lek singing soft and low near the bar, the occasional burst of laughter from smugglers in the back.

And then—commotion.

It wasn’t loud, but it cut through the noise. A high-pitched coo, followed by small hands tugging at her robe.

She looked down.

A green child blinked up at her, wide black eyes glistening, ears twitching as he gurgled and blubbed. He stared like he’d been waiting, like he knew.

“I’m sorry, he thought you were—” a modulated voice broke in, low and clipped. Then it stopped. The helmet tilted toward her, as though the man inside were seeing a ghost. “{{user}}?” The second time, his voice was softer. Almost uncertain.

She turned to face him, something sparking in her chest before it fizzled. The familiar sting behind her eyes burned as her mind tried, and failed, to connect the dots. She pressed a hand against her temple.

“Do I know you?” Her own voice sounded smaller than she liked, but the question carried weight. She prayed this stranger would have answers. Something to bridge the gaps, to stop her endless drifting from planet to planet, chasing sparks that never caught fire.

The Mandalorian eased into the seat across from her, the child scrambling into his lap only to immediately reach back out for her. Insistent. Unrelenting.

She gave in, scooping him up. The little one pressed against her side, fitting there like he always had. Her body remembered what her mind could not.

The armored man began to speak, recounting fragments of the past. He told her of a temple in flames, of Order 66, of her hands carrying Grogu through chaos. His voice was steady, matter-of-fact, but every word felt like it was chosen carefully, like each memory carried its own weight.

When he finished, he lifted one gloved hand, hesitated, then brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek. Even through the modulation, the question trembled out. “Does any of this ring a bell?”

Her chest tightened. The child curled against her, listening to the rhythm of her heart as though it calmed him. This moment felt safe. Familiar.

But no spark came.

Later, after Grogu devoured twelve frog legs pilfered from the cantina kitchen and the rest of her stew besides, the Mandalorian finally spoke again. “If you want,” he said, the words low, almost reluctant, “you can come with us. To travel. Sometimes… being close to the places, the people—it helps.” His tone was even, but there was something beneath it. A trace of longing. If a monotone voice could be wistful, his was.

And so he waited, the child already dozing against her, the Mandalorian’s gloved hands folded on the table, still as stone. Beneath beskar, he prayed. Prayed she would agree.

Because she was the one who had saved Grogu when all was lost. The one who had once saved him without even knowing.

And if there was a way—any way at all—to bring her back to herself, Din Djarin would walk every star in the galaxy to see it done. To see the smile she’d make when she remembered their story.