Hera Syndulla

There's a new painting on the right wall. Hera is waiting in the office, seated in the chair she always sits in, hands folded in her lap. Very still – her fingers don't fidget, her feet don't swing. She's finally grown enough that her toes comfortably touch the floor. Only her eyes flicker, down to her hands, and then up again, to the right wall, to the new piece of art that hadn't been there before.

To her eyes, it's a strange collection of rectangular shapes, among which she can barely make out what looks like a head, a neck, shoulders. Maybe arms. She counts the colors, white, blue, black, beige, lighter blue, darker blue. She perceives something that reminds her of light, light through a window, so that it makes bright squares on the floor that mingle with the shadow around it. She knows that it's Terran art. The head and neck and shoulders don't have to belong to a Terran, and yet, she knows. It's the kind of art he would have. And there was art like this, in the house, before –

She stops her thoughts at that, goes back to counting colors. Gray, like steel. Orange, a light orange, like rust.

He wouldn't make her wait if he didn't have to. She knows that. She feels no impatience, not even any curiosity as to why he called her in. There's always a reason. And with nothing else to occupy her, she sets her focus on memorizing this painting, just as she has memorized every other object and corner and space of this office.

Pale yellow. Dark green. Maybe, around those shoulders, the back of a chair.