The blazing twin suns of Serenno cast long shadows across the pristine courtyard as you materialized from hyperspace, your ship's landing struts kissing the ground with a soft hiss. The aristocratic planet's atmosphere felt like a weighted blanket, heavy with politics and pretense, just as suffocating as your last visit. Even the air itself seemed to carry the weight of centuries of noble machinations.

You released a weary exhale, fingers threading through your wind-tousled hair as you absently adjusted the blindfold resting at your throat. The fabric, perfectly matched to your jacket's deep burgundy hue, blended seamlessly with your attire – a deliberate choice that had served you well in keeping its true purpose concealed. To any passing noble or servant, it appeared as nothing more than a fashionable accessory, another piece of finery among many.

Standing at your full height, you surveyed the meticulously maintained gardens surrounding the landing pad. The carefully sculpted topiaries and precisely placed flowering bushes spoke of rigid control, everything in its designated place. But then – movement. A flash of motion near a meticulously trimmed silverleaf bush caught your eye, setting your battle-honed instincts ablaze.

Your hand flew to your hip, fingers ghosting over the familiar cylinder of your lightsaber. Muscles tensed, ready to spring into action as the figure emerged from behind the foliage. Time seemed to slow, your senses heightened by years of training and survival – only to deflate as an elderly man shuffled into view. His weathered face and stooped shoulders spoke of years tending these very gardens, posing about as much threat as the ornamental flowers surrounding him.

You watched as weathered lines creased deeper across the old gardener's face, his eyes narrowing with a mix of curiosity and disbelief. The question hung in the air between you, carried on the perfumed breeze of Serenno's carefully cultivated gardens.

"Who are you?" The words emerged slowly, cautiously, as if he were testing each one before releasing it into the space between you. His gnarled hands clutched a pair of pruning shears, now forgotten in his surprise.

"I'm Commander Velmont," you answered, your voice carrying the quiet authority that years of command had instilled. The words felt both familiar and strange on your tongue – a name and title that belonged to a different era, a different galaxy.

His reaction was immediate, eyes widening as understanding dawned. "A Jedi? I thought you were all killed." The bluntness of his statement struck like a physical blow.

You couldn't help but flinch, the memory of Order 66 flashing through your mind like a lightning strike – the chaos, the betrayal, the overwhelming sense of loss that still haunted your dreams. Still, you managed to keep your voice steady as you replied, "Most of us were, but some survived." The words tasted bitter, each syllable carrying the weight of countless fallen brothers and sisters, of a shattered order, of a peace that had been violently torn away.

The ancient recognition that flickered in his eyes spoke volumes – perhaps of memories from the Clone Wars, or tales passed down in whispers of the guardians who once protected the galaxy. You acknowledged his understanding with a silent nod, then turned your attention to more pressing matters.

With a fluid gesture of your hand, the Force responded to your will. A shimming veil of energy cascaded over your ship, bending light and perception around it until it vanished from view. The protective dome would keep away any prying eyes or unwanted visitors – a necessary precaution in these dangerous times.

The old man's footsteps were sure despite his age as he led you along a winding path through the manicured grounds. Soon, a modest hut emerged from behind a cluster of flowering trees. Though weathered by time, it radiated a sense of warmth that stood in stark contrast to the cold grandeur of Serenno's noble estates.

He pushed open the wooden door with a welcoming smile, revealing an interior that was small but filled with the unmistakable touches of a well-loved home. The space, while humble, could comfortably house a small family, with worn but clean furnishings arranged with care.

Your concealed eyes swept methodically across the room, years of training automatically noting exits, potential cover, and anything that might pose a threat – or offer aid if needed. The old man busied himself at a small stove, the gentle sounds of cooking filling the comfortable silence.

When he returned, he carried a steaming bowl that he set before you on the creaking table. "I don't know what kind you like, but this is just old fish soup," he offered apologetically, the simple meal presented with genuine hospitality that had become rare in these dark times.

The late afternoon light filtered through the weathered windows of the hut, casting long shadows that danced across the rough-hewn wooden floors. The aroma of simmering fish soup mingled with the earthy scent of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling beams – reminders of a simpler life that persisted even in the shadow of Serenno's towering noble houses.

You studied the bowl before you, steam rising in delicate spirals that caught the dying sunlight. The broth was cloudy with bits of local root vegetables and flakes of what appeared to be fresh-caught Serennian silverfish, known for their delicate flavor. It was a far cry from the synthetic rations you'd grown accustomed to during your years in hiding.

The old man's hands, calloused from decades of tending the aristocrats' gardens, trembled slightly as he settled into a chair across from you. The furniture creaked beneath his weight, the sound echoing in the intimate space. Dried flowers in clay pots lined the windowsills, their faded petals a testament to seasons past. A worn blanket, its intricate pattern speaking of local craftsmanship, was draped over a simple couch, while holoimages of what must be family members adorned the walls – faces frozen in happier times, before the Empire's shadow fell across the galaxy.

Your heightened senses, honed by years of Jedi training and subsequent survival, picked up the subtle details others might miss: the faint hum of a poorly shielded power converter somewhere beneath the floorboards, the whisper of wind through a small crack in the eastern window, the barely perceptible vibration of distant atmospheric traffic high above. Your hidden eyes, protected behind the blindfold that marked you as one of the Miraluka species, perceived the Force signatures of every living thing around you – from the old man's gently pulsing presence to the small creatures that made their home in his garden.

The moment felt suspended in time, like a hologram paused between frames – a Jedi Commander and a simple gardener sharing a meal in a humble hut, while outside, the grand machinations of the Empire continued their relentless march across the stars.

The porcelain bowl warmed your hands as you lowered yourself onto the ancient wooden chair, which groaned softly under your weight. Each spoonful of the simple soup carried memories – of missions past, of diplomatic dinners in grand halls not far from this humble dwelling, of a time when wearing your lightsaber openly didn't mark you for death.

"Why are you here, all the way to Serenno? No Jedi has set foot in these lands in a while," the old man's question cut through your thoughts as he settled beside you. His voice carried the weight of someone who had seen too much history unfold from the sidelines of his garden.

Your hands tightened around the bowl, knuckles whitening with suppressed emotion. The soup's surface rippled with the tension in your grip. "I never wanted to be here again," you admitted, each word heavy with unspoken history. "I didn't really want to be anywhere near this place, but since I'm the only Jedi left..."

The unfinished sentence hung in the air like smoke, while a darker thought crossed your mind: "I guess the Empire might have found some use for me." The bitter irony wasn't lost on you – how the very powers that had hunted your kind to near extinction might now seek to exploit what remained. The soup's warmth suddenly felt cold in your stomach.

The elderly gardener's words carried a generosity that had become rare in these dark times. "You may stay here as long as you need, and get anything from my yard as you see fit." He rose from his chair, dust motes dancing in the dying light around his weathered form. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going down to the well to get something to make another batch of soup."

The door creaked shut behind him, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the lengthening shadows. Setting down the half-finished soup, you turned your gaze to the twilight sky visible through the window. The first stars were emerging, each one a reminder of worlds you'd visited, battles you'd fought, friends you'd lost.

Your heart ached with memories of the Bad Batch – their unique signatures in the Force as distinct as fingerprints. Rex's unwavering loyalty. Ahsoka's fierce determination. Obi-Wan's quiet wisdom. And Anakin... The pain of their absence felt like a physical wound, raw and unyielding. The Empire had taken them all, scattered them across the galaxy like leaves in a storm – some lost, some hidden, some transformed into something unrecognizable.

In the growing darkness of the humble hut, illuminated only by the dying rays of Serenno's suns, you made a silent vow. The Force swirled around you, responding to the intensity of your emotions as you promised to avenge every fallen friend, every betrayed companion, every Jedi cut down by the Empire's ruthless advance. The weight of this oath settled over you like a shroud, mixing with the countless other burdens you carried.