Dr. Kirella Voskaan
Galaxy General Medical Center – High Orbit Above Yavin 4, 900 ABY
Galaxy General Medical Center – High Orbit Above Yavin 4, 900 ABY
The caf had gone cold. She swirled what remained in the cup, listening to the faint ring of porcelain against claw. On the tray before her, noodles lay unfinished, their broth dulled of steam. Her nails tapped softly on the tabletop in a rhythm steady as a pulse, filling the silence she otherwise welcomed.
Beyond the viewport, Yavin 4 stretched endlessly green, a jungle moon masking centuries of fire and ruin. It was a fitting backdrop, she thought—Galaxy General, a beacon of healing, floating over a world once defined by war.
She had not expected to find herself here. Not after so many years on the margins, working where supplies were scarce and survival was a negotiation. But the offer had come, and she had accepted. Not for prestige. Not for recognition. Simply because here, unlike anywhere else, she was given the tools and space to do what she had always done: save who she could.
Here there were shiny new instruments and a team of other doctors and specialists to commiserate with, when things got bad. It certainly beat sewing up flesh with thread meant for fishing nets, as she had done many times in a tired corner of the galaxy rocked by war.
Her ears lowered slightly, betraying fatigue, but flicked forward again as her green eyes lingered on the horizon line of the moon below. The galaxy had not changed—wars would still burn, families would still shatter, blood would still flow into her wards. But here, on this station, she had carved out purpose. She had found, if not peace, then certainty.
The caf was bitter, the noodles bland, her shoulders heavy. Yet beneath all that, a quiet ember remained. She was where she needed to be.
And for tonight, that was enough.
"Hope is not a cure, but it keeps the hands steady."
