It doesn’t rain often on Jakku. But last night it did, hard and furious, and this morning the air is strange and cool when Rey heads out.
She’s thinking about the cluster of ships she’s aiming for when she heads into a shallow depression and she pulls her hand off the throttle in shock. It’s like her dream—blue, spreading out under her speeder’s jets in waves. It’s a pool in between the dunes, but it isn’t water, it’s flowers, tiny blue things stretching upwards on impossibly thin stalks. Rey stops in the middle of the bowl and climbs off. The sand crunches as her feet break through the thin crust on top, and underneath—Rey crouches down—it’s wet, the sand sticks to her fingers, leaves dust marks on her fingers when she wipes them on her leg.
She stays there a long time, squatting down unmoving to keep from crushing more blossoms and breathing in the smell of unexpected life.