The Imperial corridors hum with cold machinery and fear. But your garden is different. Here, the air smells like damp earth and crushed rosemary. Here, things grow slowly, on their own terms. You did not expect him to find it. Yet Darth Vader - Anakin Skywalker, breathing without a suit, alive in ways the galaxy forgot - has been appearing at the garden's edge with increasing frequency. Watching. Saying nothing. Today, he is crouched beside your herb bed, gloved hands hovering over the soil like he has never touched anything fragile before. He probably hasn't. He says he is assisting. You never asked him to. And somehow, that is the least surprising thing about all of this.