The Vale homestead had long since fallen into sleep.
Beyond its wooden walls, the silver fields of Eshan shimmered beneath the stars, not with frost or dew, but with something older, something ancient, as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Eve sat alone on the back porch, wrapped in a woven shawl that smelled faintly of cedarwood and home. The lantern beside her had burned down to embers. Her hands were still, but her thoughts were wandering, adrift in the memory of shaped wood and carved meaning, in the silent ache of change. Somewhere inside, her new lightsaber casing rested unfinished, cradling her kyber crystal like a heart not yet given a name.
She hadn't come outside with intent. She'd simply felt drawn, as though something beyond her had called, soft as starlight, to be remembered.
The wind stirred.
And then she saw it again.
At first, a shadow moving through the tall grass. Then moonlight struck silver fur and the shape unfolded, slender, ethereal, gliding with a grace untouched by time. The fox stepped into view like a thought given form, its coat kissed with light, its eyes pale and endless.
It was the same fox from the previous night, returned.
The stories came back in a whisper, the kind her mother used to tell at dusk, half-lost in memory. Spirits of the old world, guardians of the veil between what is seen and what is sensed. Some said they were messengers of the Force itself. Others, shapeshifters who only came to those whose paths were shifting.
Eve didn't speak. She didn't move.
The fox came closer.
No sound accompanied its steps. The grass parted for it like mist, and its eyes — silver like hers, but deeper, ancient — fixed on her not with the gaze of an animal, but with the still, unwavering quiet of a knowing presence.
She lowered herself to the porch floor, slowly, folding her legs beneath her. Her shawl pooled around her like water.
She opened herself to the Force, not pushing, not calling. Only listening.
The fox did not shy away.
It crossed the last stretch of grass. Stood just at the foot of the porch. The stars caught in its fur like glints of snowlight. And then it stepped forward again — a single, sure motion — and its snout brushed her knee.
Time unravelled.
Not with fanfare, not with visions, but with a thrum. A resonance. Like a thread of moonlight had been sewn through her spirit, tethering her to something older, gentler, vaster. Eve breathed — in, out — her eye wide, heart stilled in reverence.
And then the fox turned.
It slipped away into the grass, gone in a blink, as if it had never been.
But Eve knew better.
She could still feel it, not in her skin, but in the quiet beneath her ribs. A subtle warmth. A flicker of connection. A secret thread, trailing into the unknown.
She placed her hand gently to her knee. Her voice was barely more than breath.
"Th-thank you."
No answer came. But the stars seemed brighter.
And the Force... very softly... hummed.
