Compared to her husband, Jyn finds herself unable to move, unable to speak, staring at her daughter with wide eyes. Her daughter. She doesn't move when Cassian releases her to gather their daughter up in his arms, doesn't speak to defend herself about Rey's lack of middle name, just looks at the grown woman her child had become.

She's almost as tall as Cassian, same dark and disheveled hair, same dimples that Jyn doesn't think she will see. Doesn't deserve to see. She looks so much like Cassian it makes Jyn's chest ache, same nose and chin and friendly mouth that is more suited for smiling than the grief they've been dealt.

But her eyes are Jyn's. Galen's. Stardust.

She listens to Cassian's apologies, remembering the same apologies when she was in labor, all pain wiped away when her daughter was pressed into her arms, wriggling violently like she refused to be tied down even with blankets. She hadn't been calmed by Jyn's familiar heartbeat and warmth and part of her was afraid she'd done it wrong, done something wrong. But then Cassian had run his finger down the bridge of her nose, kissed the top of her dark head, and she'd stilled immediately. Maybe it was just the truth of fathers and daughters.

Eventually, her voice nothing more than a broken rasp, she manages, "Stardust."