Ghosthand
Two years without a word.
Roman had waded through warzones with less tension in his chest. He'd eliminated pirates in the vacuum of space, crawled through sulfur-laced rivers under enemy artillery, smiled at death so many times they were practically on speaking terms. And still - this. This left him restless in his bones.
The shuttle that brought him to Tython was unmarked, one of the Confederacy's silent birds, the kind of transport that didn't file logs. He hadn't come as a soldier, not today. No insignia, no rank. Just a man foolish enough to return to the source of his heartache.
Tython hadn't changed. Verdant, patient, overly serene. He always thought the planet was smug. That kind of untouched beauty made men believe peace was natural, instead of something that had to be carved out with blood and compromise. He pulled his hood lower and moved through the trees, a shadow among the shadows.
The training fields lay to the east, away from the Temple. They'd always walked a similar route together. He knew it was where she trained when she wanted to be alone. Roman liked her better like that - sweaty, focused, scowling when she missed her mark. Human.
He found her by the edge of the glade.
Same field. Same determined set to her jaw. She moved like someone born of light, like the Force bent to her rhythm because it wanted to. She always had that rare ease with it. Where Roman strained and fought, Anneliese simply was. A song the galaxy hadn't deserved.
He crouched low on the slope, body wrapped in the Force like a burial shroud. His presence was a pebble sunk beneath a still lake, no ripples. Jedi rarely checked for ghosts when they thought they'd buried you.
She hadn't changed much. Maybe a little older in the eyes. A little stronger. But still - Anneliese.
He watched her flip through saber drills. He could see the slight irritation when she faltered by a fraction. She corrected, adjusted. Breathed.
He remembered the first time she kissed him. He remembered her hands on his collar, tugging him in. He remembered the yes in her voice when they thought maybe they could have a life. Before he left. Before she looked at him like he was some sad casualty. A fire that had burned itself out in the wrong hearth.
He still wrote. Every week. Dozens of letters about nothing: skirmishes, sunrises on foreign moons, dumb jokes his squadmates made.
Roman shifted, standing slowly, still cloaked. He didn't want her to see him. Not really. He didn't deserve that.
But… he wanted her to feel him.
So he exhaled slowly. Like bleeding out.
Dropped the mask.
Let the Force breathe him out like a name half-forgotten.
Because maybe he was a glutton for punishment.
