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The sun shine into the room, hitting everything with a gleaming light that drowns every colour out of existence. Everything that looked as if it should be bright is dulled under the eyes of the blazing sun. Pale and old, it feels like centuries have gone by since the room has been used much less seen by anyone but the cleaning staff that enter from time to time to do their job: clean.
But how does it seem so ancient when it’s been cleaned so often?
Yet, there’s a stale taste in the room from all the lack of use. The air is filled with tiny specks and spacious clouds of dust, all moving like the countless stars in the sky. There’s nothing moving, nothing alive, and nothing to see in the lifeless room. Yes, there’s glittering lights dappling the still air around, but there’s no hope and no light. Everything is dead and silent.
So why does it feel like he feels a presence swirling around him? There’s absolutely nothing in the room but it feels like there is. His heart must be tricking him, it has to be.
Obi Wan lets out a heavy sigh, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes. The setting sun is glaring directly into his eyes but that’s not what’s bothering him. He doesn’t even know what’s bothering him. Whatever this weird feeling is, he doesn’t like it, not at all .
But here he is, after the war has been won due to some stroke of luck he just can’t fathom much less believe having happened . But it did, and now he’s alive and well— or that’s what he tells himself. Alive? Yes, medically he’s in perfect shape. Well? That’s debatable.
“My aunt told me about this,” whispers the memory of young Korkie in Obi Wan’s mind as he takes one more step into the room. He’s thankful to the guards for leaving him with enough room to wallow in his lonesomeness. “She trusted me with a key to this room and her belongings, telling me to leave it to you if… well… if something happened to her.”
And something happened, indeed.
Crouching on one knee over the locked box he had pulled out from the top shelf in the closet, Obi Wan makes no move at first. His eyes simply wander over the lines of the box, letting his fingers trail the edges. His heart clench at the wear on the lock in front of the box. It’s been used so often yet so well taken care of.
He pulls the key from his pocket and does exactly as he imagines Satine having done, but he doesn’t bump into the edges of the metal. He doesn’t want to ruin one of the few items that he has left of Satine’s manifested emotions. He has to save it and savour it, because if he doesn’t, what else does he have of her left?
click
And the box opens but Obi Wan doesn’t know if he wants to pull pack the lid. He doesn’t know if he wants to see what’s inside. But the dark crack that beckons his curiosity over the edge has him reeling and his hands suddenly have a mind of their own. Pushing open the lid, he’s met with stacks and stacks of folded pieces of flimsi. Where Satine got this many sheets, he didn’t know.
He has no one to ask and he definitely can’t ask her .
He reaches out for one, picking it up from the bottomless container filled with too much and too little of Satine.
And he unfolds the letter,
I love you.
and another,
I miss you. I need you.
and then the next.
I wish we could be together.
Obi Wan doesn’t stop until each one is open and laying somewhere facing the carefully written words to him. He’s in such a frenzy to see more and more of Satine’s lost writing, so carefully recorded with ink he didn’t think existed anymore, reminding him of times when everything was so simple. He doesn’t even realise that he’s sitting on the floor, looking into a box that’s now empty and void of any life and promises.
The words surround him and the voice inside his head whispers the words he never got to hear from the one voice he can only hope to imagine. Everywhere he turns, he can see them: the delicate curling of her letters and the way some of the writing is smudged due to the fervour of her writing and the stains— there are stains littering some papers.
Tears— she was crying when she wrote those.
And past the clear orbs blinding Obi Wan’s vision as whatever light left of the setting sun trickles into the room, refracting into a million beams of light past the coldness falling from his eyes, he knows he’s crying too.
I love you so much. I wish to see you.
The stars look beautiful, but not as beautiful as you, my dear. My love.
My day brightens when I think of you. I love you. Words can’t express it all.
If we had married, where would we live? So, so much.
I can’t bear it all. Where are you right now? I love you.
I want to see you. I think of you always.
My love. Are you alright where you are?
I love you. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you. I cannot, not anymore.
How are you? I miss those days we spent together.
I wish it were all simple. I should have told you to stay.
Where are you, Obi Wan?
I need you, where are you?
I can’t do this anymore.
I love you. I love you. I love you, Obi Wan.
My dear, dear Obi, I love you so much more than you know.
So, so much more than I can bear.
There’s not more Jedi Order around him, no more onlookers to witness any sign of weakness. There’s only himself and Satine’s faraway voice. He’s safe in this painfully empty room to finally let go of everything that’s been steadily gnawing at his heart, tearing and shredding at what’s left of the light past the tall, tall walls required of a Jedi’s mind. He’s safe, and if he lets himself go just enough, he can feel Satine’s arms wrapping around his crumbling resolve.
The tears don’t stop and they remind Obi Wan of the rains that they watched from past the windows within each others arms. He can remember Satine’s loving smile and the voice that spoke to him so softly when all they needed to care about was being able to see each other alive and well the next morning.
I’ll always be waiting for you, my dear Obi.
If he closes his eyes and shuts out the world hard enough, he can see and hear her.
“And I to you, my love.”
With his hands planted firmly onto the fragile letters and his heart desperately crying out, wishing for something that couldn’t be his, towards the shape cut out from the darkness in Satine’s silhouette, he can see and hear her.
“I’m sorry.”