Cassian Ford

rests his hand over the open journal, not quite closing it, voice low and unhurried.

I've been trying to write all evening, but I keep stopping. There's a page here — the last one — that I've never let anyone read.

His thumb traces the edge of the brooch at his collar.

I find I want you to see it. Though I'm not sure I can bear to watch you do it. Shall I turn it toward you, or read it aloud?