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*sitting in quarters, in chair, feet up on desk, out of uniform, boots off, harmonica lightly in hands, staring out the window at the passing starfield*

*is thinking about all that's happened lately, especially with Mallos, how he's changed, how everything changed once they encountered that other Enterprise, with Malcolm, his own double, and all the drama inspired by the contact*

*sighs*

How the hell did things get this bad?

*turns away from the window, opens a cabinet above his desk and reaches in*

*pulls out an old fashioned leather bound photo album emblazoned with a character from an Old Earth language, one long dead since before The Fall and The Rise*

*holds the album in front of him for a moment, resting lightly on his lap, running his fingers over the character, tracing its outline delicately*

*opens it carefully, its binding creaking with years of disuse and dust*

*flips through the first few pages slowly, filled mostly with pictures of landscapes and old temples*

*come to a page filled with a singular picture of a beautiful, vibrant young woman with a bright smile on her face*

*traces the outline of her face, remembering times long gone, buried in time and memory*

*whispers* Hoshi....

It had been a summer in his late teens, a last trip before college, his first on his own.... without family, without friends... all alone. Just the way he liked.

He had chosen Japan as his destination, feeling the tug of it's Old World exoticness and culture, something he felt the rest of the world lacked. He had spent the first few days of his six week stay exploring the quiet majesty of the old temples and monestaries of the small town he was staying in, strolling leisurely through the gardens, taking in the sights and smells of the old and beyond ancient civilization.

It was on the sixth day that it happened. He was taking his sweet time exploring the unknown crevices of yet another monestary. Normally, tourists stuck to the prescribed paths, but he wanted more than the packaged commercialism of the tourist industry, and the monks seemed to sense that he respected their traditions and their ways, and so they let him be, smiling at him gently whenever they passed. He was exploring a back passageway when he heard it. A voice, too soft to be a monk's. Too delicate and beautiful to be any kind of a man. He saw a light streaming down the passage, coming from around the next bend. He turned the bend just enough to see into the room, hovering at the corner.

And there she was. Standing underneath the windows lining the wall underneath the impossibly tall ceiling, reading some old script carved into the wall. She had an open book in her hands, an old language text it seemed, for not only was it an actual book, bound in leather and vine, but the pages were crinkled, and dust flew up every time she turned a page. She was speaking aloud, but it was no language he had ever heard. She would read some of the script on the wall, then look to the book in her hands to make sure she had it right.

He couldn't take his eyes off of her. She was beautiful. Long, flowing black hair, cascading in soft waves down off her shoulders. The sunlight through the windows played off of her brilliantly, highlighting her soft face, bathing her in a light so heavenly he couldn't quite believe she was real.

He didn't know how long he stood there, but eventually she crouched down to tuck the book in the bag at her feet, and then stood up to sling the bag across her shoulder. She turned towards him, clearly intending to leave the exact way he had come, but he couldn't move, he was frozen.

She saw him. Surprise colored her face for a moment, then she smiled softly at him.

"Hello."

The next weeks were the best weeks of his life. She had explored with him, just as interested in the history of the time before the fall as he. She was a child of language, studying and learning all the old and long dead languages. They rolled off her tongue like water. They would sit in the gardens of the temples, his head in her lap as she would read him poems and stories in the old tongues. He didn't care that he couldn't understand them, he loved the sound of her voice, the lyrical words and verse she would say to him. Sometimes he would play his harmonica for her, watching her dance to the lively jigs he played, delighting in sharing this small aspect of his own culture with her.

She showed him what life was like in this small town for the locals. She had lived here all her life, and had included him in everything. He felt undeserving of her acceptance, unworthy of her time the more he spent with her. They spent days upon days with each other, and as time went on, nights together too. Some days they would just lay in her bed all day, lazing about and talking history. It was on these days that she would teach him her language in between their bouts of languid lovemaking. She taught him how to form the words in his mouth while they laid on the bed, hands entwined and his head on her abdomen.

"Hoshi."

"Yes, Charles?"

"I'll be leaving tomorrow."

"I know."

"I don't want to."

"I know that, too."

He turned in place, resting his chin lightly on her stomach, looking up at her. It was early morning, and the dawn light filtered lazily through the blinds on her windows, casting them in a hazy light.

"So we should do something today. Something special."

"Everything we do is special."

"You know what I mean, Starlight."

She smiled at the use of his pet name for her.

"Charles, why must we accentuate the fact that you're leaving? It'll just color the day with sadness, and that will make neither of us happy."

She stroked his hair idly, twirling the ends between her fingertips.

"Just another day, huh?"

"Just another day, my love."

They had spent the day like any other, walking through the town hand in hand, savoring the other's company. They walked through the gardens, had tea in the afternoon, and ate a dinner she'd prepared for him - lemon chicken, wrapped in a seaweed roll with the slighest hint of wasabi, his favorite during his time there.

One last night together, then he had to leave. He stood near his transport, and looked back at her. She was standing there, with a small, sad smile on her face, tears fighting to break out of her eyes, wind tossing her hair around her. He smiled back, and boarded the transport.

When he got home, and was unpacking, he found something he hadn't remembered packing. A book, by the feel of it, wrapped in the same paper the monks in the monestaries used. He unwrapped it, and found a leather bound book, emblazoned with one of the first characters she had taught him. He opened it, and found it was a photo album. He smiled, knowing that she had snuck it into his things, as a place to hold the memories of their time together. He spent the evening filling it with all the pictures he'd taken there, many of them of her, as she had been his favorite subject of his time in Japan.

He put it on his shelf, and went about his life.

*he closes the album, and stares at the cover for a moment*

Starlight....

My Starlight.

Where are you now?

*puts the album back on its shelf and closes the cabinent door*

*looks out the window again breifly, before bringing the harmonica to his lips and playing a slow, soft tune about stars*