Scene 2 – The First Morning

  Part I - The Not-Sleep

  Coruscant. Upper Sector. Private Seraquin Estate. Level 3801.

  She hadn’t slept, not truly. The bed was a monument to sterile comfort, too pristine, too silent to offer any semblance of safety.

  Eria had sat on its edge once, briefly, after her uncle had left, feeling the unfamiliar softness beneath her. Her legs dangled, useless, as if she'd forgotten how to occupy such a space. It had been years since she'd known a mattress that wasn't thin and hard, offered with a strict quarter-hour for rest.

  Eventually, she'd abandoned the bed altogether, seeking the floor's cold, polished stone. It was uneven in the way only deliberate artistry could achieve, the kind of expensive texture credits could buy. She curled up beside the bed, knees drawn to her chest, arm wrapped tight across her stomach, head resting against the side panel.

  The rain outside had ceased at some point, but the city hadn't quieted. The low hum of turbines and repulsorlifts, the distant hiss of air exchangers, the faint whine of mag-lev traffic lanes somewhere above—Coruscant's ordered chaos never truly slept.

  Eria drifted in and out of a state that mimicked rest, but offered no true escape. Never sleep.

  When her eyes finally opened, artificial sunlight filled the room, warm and golden, a programmed imitation of morning. It didn't brighten the space, merely shifted its tone, like a new mask placed over the old.

  A knock came at the door—polite, measured, devoid of any real invitation.

  “Miss Elezia?” A woman's voice, refined and smooth, the tone of domestic staff trained to be invisible. “Breakfast is being served downstairs. Shall I bring a tray up for you instead?”

  Eria didn't answer, the name still a foreign weight in her mouth.

  A pause, and then the soft sound of retreating footsteps.

  She pushed herself up slowly, each movement a reminder of the dull, throbbing ache in her shoulder, stiff from cold and disuse. She touched it once, briefly, then let her hand fall away. Not bleeding, just a constant, unwelcome companion.

  She peeled off her outer tunic, the fabric stiff with dried mud, and tossed it onto the corner of the bed, turning away as if it were a betrayal. Her undershirt was grimy and torn, a stark contrast to the room's pristine order. Boots by the door. She couldn't summon the energy to care.

  No bath. No clean clothes. Not yet.

  She dragged a hand through her hair, wincing at a snarl, and abandoned the effort halfway through. Her hands felt too large, too rough, too present in this space.

  She opened the door.

  The corridor stretched before her, bathed in soft, muted light, as if even the house was afraid to disturb the silence. Barefoot, she moved slowly, quietly, the floors smooth and warm beneath her feet, an expensive comfort that felt alien.

  This place didn't just conceal you; it erased you.

  At the bottom of the stairs, the dining room waited—vast, silent, the table meticulously set.

  She stepped inside, and froze.

  Three places.

  Her uncle sat at the far end, his attention fixed on a datapad, a glass of dark liquid untouched beside him. He didn't look up.

  Two seats closer, one occupied.

  A woman, perhaps mid-fifties, dressed in severe grey formal wear, her hair pulled back with unforgiving precision. Poised. Composed.

  Her aunt.

  Eria didn't recognize her, but the recognition wasn't necessary. It was there in the rigid posture, the absence of any welcome, the heavy silence that demanded she already knew.

  She moved slowly, each step measured, and sat in the remaining chair.

  The plate before her held delicate fruit slices, folded breads, a small cup of pale broth—a meal chosen with careful consideration, and utterly foreign to her.

  She didn't touch it.

  A servant appeared silently, as if summoned by the room itself. “Tea, Miss Elezia?”

  Eria remained still.

  The tea was poured anyway.

  “Good morning,” her aunt said, the words smooth and practiced, devoid of warmth or genuine feeling, like a line repeated countless times since a funeral.

  Eria looked down, her gaze fixed on the pristine tablecloth.

  Didn't speak.

  Didn't move.

  Didn't dare to breathe too deeply.

  Part II - Breakfast In Bare Feet

  She could feel the air in the room, still and heavy, as if it were holding its breath, afraid to disturb the fragile tableau. Sunlight, filtered into a soft, golden glow, slanted through the tall windows, casting long shadows that stretched and distorted the elegant furniture.

  Her fingers were cold, not from any draft—the temperature was meticulously controlled within the estate—but from a deep inner chill, her blood unsure whether to flow or freeze. The faint scent of the tea, a spiced floral blend, hung delicately in the air, mingling with the subtle aroma of polished wood and something indefinably expensive.

  Her aunt's gaze remained fixed on her, an intense scrutiny that seemed to dissect her from across the expanse of the polished table. Eria kept her eyes down, focusing on the stark white of the napkin, its corner folded with a geometric precision that spoke of endless time and meticulous order.

  Eat something.

  The voice echoed in her mind, not her aunt's, not her own, but something older, a half-remembered command from the Temple. A medic? A master?

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Eat something. You'll feel steadier.

  Her stomach was a knot of tension, her mouth dry. The delicate porcelain cup might offer some comfort, but lifting it felt like a dangerous commitment, an acknowledgement that she was present, that this was real, that she had survived when so many others... hadn't.

  She clenched her jaw, her gaze fixed on the untouched plate.

  Papaya, sliced with artistic precision, spiced bread, its crust glistening, a small dish of shimmering fruit preserve, something fried into an intricate curl. Each item chosen with a delicate care that spoke of Elezia's life, a life she knew nothing of.

  But she wasn't Elezia.

  She wasn't even pretending to be.

  She was a ghost inhabiting a space built for the dead, surrounded by the ghosts of what should have been.

  Her uncle remained silent at the far end of the table, absorbed in the blue glow of his datapad, the untouched glass beside him reflecting the filtered sunlight.

  Good.

  She didn't want to hear his voice, not yet, not again.

  Her aunt, however, didn't waver. Her gaze remained unwavering, her hands folded calmly above her plate, a statue carved from composure. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the soft hum of the estate's ventilation system, a constant, unobtrusive presence.

  It was a form of power, Eria recognized, the kind forged in the crucible of grief.

  She hated it.

  She hated the woman's perfect control, her immaculate appearance, the practiced sincerity of her "good morning." The silverware gleamed under the soft light, each piece precisely aligned.

  She risked a glance upwards, and their eyes met. Her aunt was still watching.

  Eria looked away.

  The silence had thickened, becoming a palpable presence in the room. Tension coiled beneath the table, a pressure built behind her eyes, a sense of something heavy and unkind about to be said.

  She focused on her breathing, trying to find a rhythm in the chaos within. Even. Controlled.

  In through the nose. Out slow.

  Back straight. Shoulders relaxed. Hands in her lap.

  Her training, honed in the Temple, kicked in.

  Presence masks pain. Stillness masks fear.

  But the familiar disciplines felt brittle, inadequate in this place.

  Because here, stillness looked less like strength and more like guilt.

  Part III: Cold Reading

  Eria remained still, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She fixed her gaze on the delicate cup of tea, its surface undisturbed, as if it held some hidden offense.

  The subtle hum of the estate seemed to pulse in and out of her awareness—the quiet whir of air systems, the distant whisper of sky traffic beyond the panoramic windows, the almost imperceptible click of her uncle setting his datapad down on the table.

  The silence stretched, thick and heavy.

  She could feel the weight of her aunt’s unwavering gaze. Eria hadn't touched anything on the table, not even the perfectly folded napkin.

  “You're not eating,” her aunt stated, her voice soft, devoid of judgment, merely an observation. “Is it the pain?”

  Eria offered no response.

  The woman's gaze lingered for another moment, then she said, “We can summon a medic.”

  “No,” Eria replied, the word emerging too quickly, too sharply.

  “Then at least change your clothes,” her aunt suggested gently. “Clean garments are in the wardrobe. You don't have to remain looking like—”

  “Like what?” Eria interjected, her eyes widening slightly, her voice low and laced with a challenge.

  The atmosphere in the room seemed to shift, the air itself growing taut.

  “Like a survivor,” her aunt said quietly.

  Eria exhaled slowly through her teeth.

  “You appear as someone still amidst the wreckage,” her aunt continued, her voice steady. “As someone who hasn't yet decided if they lived or not.”

  Eria's jaw worked for a moment, her muscles clenching and unclenching.

  And then she spoke, her voice firm: “You don't know me.”

  Her aunt didn't blink, her gaze unwavering. “I was present at your birth.”

  The words struck Eria like a physical blow.

  “I held you as your mother wept,” she continued, her tone softening. “When the Jedi came to take you away, she questioned whether she was doing the right thing. I didn't know how to answer her.”

  Eria rose abruptly, the chair scraping harshly against the polished floor. Her aunt recoiled slightly.

  “I am not your daughter.”

  Four words, delivered without shouting or whispering, each one a precise strike.

  Her aunt's composure remained unbroken.

  But the silence in the room shattered.

  “I am not Elezia,” Eria repeated, her voice gaining volume. “I didn't grow up within these walls. I am unfamiliar with the artwork, the location of your precious tea, or the way she smiled, walked, or carried herself—”

  Her voice faltered, cracking with suppressed emotion.

  “My existence has been defined by war. I've sought refuge in filthy alleyways, bled through tattered tunics, and witnessed the deaths of my comrades—”

  She paused, inhaling deeply, and swallowed the lump in her throat.

  “And yet, you placed me in her chair. As if I were meant to fit seamlessly.”

  Her aunt slowly pushed herself up from the table, her hands still resting on its edge.

  “We did not bring you here to conform,” she stated.

  “Then for what purpose did you bring me here?” Eria demanded.

  “Because you are family.”

  The simple declaration halted Eria's outburst.

  “Do you believe I am oblivious to your true self?” her aunt continued, her voice unwavering. “Do you think I fail to notice your flinching at sudden noises? Do you imagine we haven't endured enough loss?”

  She moved around the table, her steps measured, devoid of haste or anger.

  “We laid our daughter to rest without a proper farewell. Without even uttering her name. All because we were told it was for the best.”

  Her voice trembled slightly, yet her composure remained intact.

  “And then you appeared. Cold. Silent. Covered in the grime and blood of battle. Resembling a fragmented memory from an incomplete dream.”

  Eria's breath hitched in her throat.

  Her aunt came to a stop a few feet away, closer than Eria found comfortable.

  “You are not Elezia. We are well aware of that. However, you are the last living remnant of someone I deeply loved.”

  Eria remained silent, her expression unreadable.

  Her aunt's voice softened to a whisper.

  “And I refuse to lose another daughter.”

  Then, she turned and walked towards the door.

  She paused at the threshold.

  “You are free to starve yourself. You are free to fight us. You are even free to succumb to your grief. That is your prerogative.”

  A brief pause hung in the air.

  “But not within these walls.”

  She exited the room without another word, leaving Eria alone in the silence.

  Eria remained standing, her body trembling slightly.

  Yet, she stood.

  Part IV: You’re Not Wrong

  She stood there, unmoving, long after the soft click of the closing door faded into the pervasive hum of the estate. The silence in the room seemed to amplify, becoming a heavy presence that pressed in on her, thick with unspoken words and unresolved tensions. The chair remained pushed back, a silent testament to her abrupt departure from the table. The tea had grown cold, its spiced fragrance now tinged with a faint, metallic edge that made her stomach churn.

  Eria didn't move, her body rigid, her gaze locked on the intricate patterns of the polished table. Her jaw was clenched tight, the muscles in her neck corded with strain.

  A tremor ran through her hands, subtle but undeniable. She could feel the minute twitch in her fingers, the way her nails bit into her palms as she formed fists, a desperate attempt to ground herself.

  Behind her, a quiet sound broke the stillness—the almost imperceptible rustle of a datapad being placed facedown on a surface.

  She hadn't registered her uncle's continued presence in the room.

  He rose slowly from his seat at the far end of the table, his movements deliberate and unhurried, devoid of any dramatic flourish. He walked to the window, paused, and stood there for a moment, his back to her.

  He didn't turn to face her.

  “You’re not wrong,” he said, his voice measured and even.

  Eria blinked, the abruptness of his words pulling her from her internal turmoil.

  His tone wasn't warm, but it wasn't cold either—simply direct.

  “You’re not her.”

  Silence descended again, heavy and profound.

  “You don’t possess her mannerisms. You don’t speak with her cadence. You haven’t offered a single smile since you arrived.”

  He turned slightly, a subtle shift in his stance that indicated he was addressing her directly.

  “But she didn’t survive the Empire.”

  Eria's breath hitched, a barely perceptible catch in her throat.

  “You did.”

  The words hung in the air, weighted with implication.

  Then, he added, “She never had the chance to choose who she would become.”

  Another pause, allowing the statement to resonate.

  “You do.”

  She remained silent, her throat constricted, unable to articulate a response.

  He didn't wait for her to speak.

  “Eat if you wish,” he said, his tone neutral. “Refrain, if that is your preference.”

  He moved past her, his gaze sweeping over her briefly. There was no judgment in his eyes, only a quiet assessment, a somber acknowledgment of her presence.

  “You were not brought here to replace her,” he stated, his voice firm.

  He paused at the doorway, his hand resting lightly on the frame.

  “But you are here. And we will not allow this house to claim another child while pretending they never existed.”

  Then, he turned and left the room.

  There was no dramatic exit, no final pronouncement, only the soft, almost inaudible whisper of the door as it slid shut behind him.

  And Eria remained standing there, alone in th

  e vast silence.

  She was still breathing, still grappling with her pain.

  But for the first time since her arrival, she felt a flicker of recognition.