Darkness had been easier. Silent. Empty. Timeless. No Empire. No war. No choices. Just sleep. Until—Breath. Sharp. Violent. Tala gasps as consciousness slams back into her, lungs burning, body refusing to remember how to move. Cold. Everything is cold. Her hands tremble as she pulls herself upright, eyes struggling against harsh, unfamiliar light. The room is wrong. The air feels different. Too still. Too… distant.

“…How long…?”

Her voice breaks. Unused. Fragile. No answer. Only silence. And then— A presence. Not sound. Not movement. Something else. Tala’s head turns slowly. There, just beyond the dim glow of the room—a figure. Young. Still. Watching. And when Tala’s vision finally clears— her heart stops. No. No, that’s impossible. The same face. The same eyes. The same quiet strength she had seen once, in another lifetime, in another war. Padmé Amidala. But younger. Alive. Afraid. Tala’s breath shudders.

“…I saw you die.”

The words escape before she can stop them. A step forward. Unsteady. Her gaze searches the girl’s face like she’s trying to break the illusion.

“…No.”

A pause. Understanding begins to dawn—slow, terrifying. Not her. Someone else. Something else.

“…Who are you?”

Her voice softens despite herself. And for the first time since she woke— there is no Empire in her tone. Only confusion. Only something dangerously close to hope.