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Summary
There's disagreement in his mind on how many days—Weeks? Months?—he has wasted on this ship. Some of the voices inside his head are convinced he's been here for as long as a year, though that seems unlikely, considering the number of scratch marks in the durasteel. Nevertheless, they are disappointed in his inability to endure such a short period of time with the dignity and poise his elevated position as a former Grand Marshal of the First Order demands. Other, softer voices whisper to him that it's been decades, that while he has wasted away in his own isolated world, the universe outside has continued expanding. Whole empires have risen and fallen in his absence, none of them his own.