[It's such a cliche term, but Padme's heart stops. Or, rather, it skips, and though she can't feel it herself, her disbelief and wonder and soaring joy is like a blazing thing in the Force. It's what she's longed for, dreamed of for years, since she was a child herself, cuddling and caring for the refugee children, the orphans of Naboo, the urchins of Tattooine. One of her own.
The young man -- Luke -- is a shadowy figure by the door, and this could all be a strange trick or dream. But Padme steps closer, and his eyes, his smile, his presence is so, so familiar.
She almost reaches out, instead clutches her blanket tighter around herself. Repeats in a faint voice:] Skywalker. That's a...a strange name. It's. From Tattooine, isn't it?
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The young man -- Luke -- is a shadowy figure by the door, and this could all be a strange trick or dream. But Padme steps closer, and his eyes, his smile, his presence is so, so familiar.
She almost reaches out, instead clutches her blanket tighter around herself. Repeats in a faint voice:] Skywalker. That's a...a strange name. It's. From Tattooine, isn't it?