Hera feels Numa's hand clasp stronger on hers again, the other woman doesn't wait for her to turn back to whisper, "We've really missed you, Here."

And she does look back to Numa, and Gobi, and smiles at both of them, briefly tightening her grip on their hands. But then her eyes flicker to her father.

Someone else might look to him and see distance, indifference. But Hera knows how little she's actually lost of her father, of her family, in the how she knows that look at once. The stoicism isn't indifference, it's patience. The look of someone who hasn't yet found what they're looking for.

Song isn't just about joy or relief. Sometimes it's about catharsis.

Hera finally has the nerve to look back not just to Kanan, but to the rest of her crew. Her smile is tight, but then, she winks.

Then, she turns back to Gobi and Numa, and asks, "'Et Ritua Euwae Shentak'?"

They blink, glancing at one another, briefly surprised by this choice. But they don't take long to look back, to nod, and they quickly release her hands.

"Chop," she calls over. "You can turn that off. We'll do this ourselves."

Chopper's head spins as he detaches from the wall, and without needing to be asked, he whirls right over to her.