“I’m Listening” to the Stars

“Good morning, Seattle. This is Dr. Frasier Crane, and I’m listening. But before we take our first caller, have mercy on me, I’d like to share something… unusual that’s been occurring in my life these past few days. You see, listeners, sometimes the universe has a way of reminding us that we don’t know everything — that there are mysteries beyond our understanding. I’ve always prided myself on my rationality, my ability to explain the human condition through the lens of psychiatry. But what happened in my apartment last Thursday has left me… well, let’s just say, questioning everything I thought I knew…”
The first time Frasier sees him, it’s through a haze of steam rising from his morning cappuccino. A tall figure in dark robes stands motionless by the piano, as if materialized from the ether.
“Dear God!” He nearly drops his cup, spilling foam onto his camel hair bathrobe. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”
The man turns, revealing a face both handsome and troubled, a scar running along his right eye. Young — maybe thirty — but with eyes that have seen far more than his years suggest.
“I need to contact the Council,” he says simply, as if this explains everything. “My communicator isn’t working in this sector.”
“Your… communicator?” Frasier sputters, backing toward the kitchen. “I’m calling security!”
The stranger’s gloved hand raises slightly. “That won’t be necessary.”
And for some reason Frasier can’t quite understand, he finds himself repeating, “That won’t be necessary,” before wondering why on earth he’s said it.
“It’s the strangest thing, Seattle. This man — who calls himself Anakin Skywalker, if you can believe it — speaks of things that sound like pure science fiction. A ‘Galactic Republic,’ ‘Jedi Knights,’ a ‘Clone War’ raging across the stars. By all rational measures, I should have him committed. And yet… there’s something compelling about his conviction, something in those troubled eyes that makes me hesitate to dismiss him outright.”
“You invited him to stay?” Niles’ voice climbs an octave as he leans across the breakfast table at Café Nervosa. “A complete stranger who broke into your apartment talking about space wizards?”
“He didn’t break in, exactly,” his brother stirs his coffee contemplatively. “That’s what’s so puzzling. The doorman never saw him enter. The security cameras show nothing. He was simply… there.”
“And that doesn’t strike you as concerning? Have you considered — ”
“That he’s suffering from a delusional disorder? Of course I have. But when he speaks of this war, of his responsibilities as a ‘Jedi General’… it’s not with the fragmented logic of psychosis. There’s a coherence, a consistency that’s quite remarkable.”
Niles dabs his lips primly with a napkin. “Well, the most elaborate delusions often are remarkably consistent. That’s what makes them so intractable.”
“Perhaps. But what if — ” Frasier leans forward, lowering his voice, “what if he’s telling the truth?”
“About being from another galaxy?” A scoff. “Really, I expected better from you.”
“You haven’t seen what I’ve seen. Last night, I dropped a glass in the kitchen. Before it hit the floor, it stopped — suspended in mid-air — and floated back up to the counter.”
His brother blinks rapidly. “You’re not serious.”
“Deadly serious. He called it ‘the Force.’”
“I know how this sounds, listeners. If one of you called in with this story, I’d be gently suggesting you increase your medication. But the universe is vast and mysterious. Who are we to say what’s possible? As Shakespeare wrote, ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”
Frasier arrives home to find his father and Anakin hunched over the coffee table, beer cans and a worn toolbox spread between them.
“So you’re saying these ‘droids’ of yours are basically robots?” Martin asks, twisting a screwdriver absently.
“Essentially, yes,” the younger man nods, his mechanical hand exposed as he manipulates what appears to be parts of a dismantled stereo system. “But nowhere near as advanced as the battle droids we’re fighting. Those can think independently, make battlefield decisions.”
“Huh. Sounds like trouble.”
“You have no idea.” A ghost of a smile crosses Anakin’s face as he fits components together with preternatural precision.
“Dad!” Frasier exclaims, aghast. “That’s my Bang & Olufsen!”
Martin waves dismissively. “Relax, Fras. The kid’s building some kinda communication thing. Says he might be able to contact his people.”
“With my five-thousand-dollar sound system?”
“Your technology is primitive,” Anakin says without looking up, “but the basic components are compatible enough.”
Frasier stands agape as his father chuckles.
“You gotta admit, it’s pretty incredible. He knows his stuff.”
A peculiar tightness forms in Frasier’s chest as he watches them continue working, heads bent together in easy camaraderie. He can’t remember the last time his father looked so engaged, so animated. Certainly not during any attempts at father-son bonding over sherry tastings or opera.
“It’s fascinating, really, how quickly we formed a strange little family unit. Daphne took it all in stride — ‘I always knew there were other worlds out there,’ she said, as if finding a Jedi Knight in our living room merely confirmed what she’d suspected all along. Even Eddie seems taken with our visitor, following him around with that inscrutable stare of his. Perhaps animals sense things we can’t.”
“So this is what passes for entertainment around here?” Anakin asks, watching as the others sit transfixed by a Met performance of La Bohème on PBS. He stands awkwardly at the edge of the room, arms folded into his robes.
“It’s called opera,” Frasier explains, pausing the recording. “It’s one of humanity’s greatest art forms.”
“Hmm.” A tilt of the head. “We have something similar on Coruscant. Though with more holograms.”
“I’d be fascinated to hear more about your world’s artistic expressions,” Niles says, warming to the subject. “Do the Jedi appreciate fine arts? Or is it all lightsabers and mind tricks?”
A shadow crosses Anakin’s face. “The Jedi believe in detachment. Art that evokes strong emotions is… discouraged.”
“That sounds positively medieval,” Frasier scoffs. “Art is meant to stir the soul, to awaken our deepest emotions.”
“That’s exactly what they fear.” The voice drops. “Emotions lead to attachment. Attachment leads to fear of loss. And fear…” He trails off, eyes distant.
An uncomfortable silence falls over the room.
“Well,” Daphne says brightly, standing up, “who’d like a biscuit with their tea?”
“I’ve come to realize, listeners, that despite coming from what he claims is a vastly advanced civilization, our visitor struggles with questions that are painfully familiar. Questions of duty versus desire. Of what we owe to others versus what we owe to ourselves. He speaks of his home with such longing, yet I sense an ambivalence there too — as if returning means resuming a role that doesn’t quite fit.”
Late one night, Frasier finds Anakin standing at the window, staring up at the stars.
“Can’t sleep?” he asks, tightening the belt of his robe.
“I never sleep well.” No turning from the window. “Not anymore.”
Frasier moves to stand beside him. “Nightmares?”
A sharp laugh. “You could say that.”
“You know, I am a psychiatrist. If you’d like to talk about it — ”
“No.” The word comes sharp as a blade, then softens. “Thank you, but no.”
They stand in silence for a moment, the city lights glimmering below.
“Your father,” Anakin says suddenly. “He was a warrior too, wasn’t he?”
“A police officer, yes. Not quite the same as your… interplanetary conflicts, I imagine.”
“It’s not so different. He understands duty, sacrifice. The weight of lives in your hands.” His flesh hand clenches. “He doesn’t question my choices the way others might.”
That same tightness returns to Frasier’s chest. “Yes, well. Dad and I have always had… differing worldviews.”
“You’re fortunate to have him.” The voice holds a note Frasier can’t quite place. “Growing up without a father… it leaves a void. One the Jedi tried to fill, but…”
“But it’s not the same,” Frasier finishes softly.
A nod, gaze still fixed upward. “I wonder sometimes… if things had been different… who I might have become.”
“It’s a curious thing, listeners, how we can be jealous of connections we never thought we wanted. Watching my father and this strange visitor bond over mechanical tinkering and war stories, I found myself envious of their easy rapport. All these years, I’ve secretly wished for my father’s approval, for him to appreciate my interests, my world. And here comes this Anakin, supposedly from the stars, who somehow bridges the gap I never could.”
“Fascinating,” Niles murmurs over breakfast at Frasier’s. “The telekinetic capabilities alone would revolutionize our understanding of physics.”
Anakin, now dressed in borrowed clothes that make him look oddly normal — if one overlooks the gloved right hand — shifts uncomfortably. “The Force isn’t meant to be studied. It’s meant to be felt, to be surrendered to.”
“Like intuition,” Martin suggests from his recliner.
“Exactly.” An appreciative nod. “Most of the time, thinking just gets in the way.”
“The story of my life,” the older man chuckles, taking a swig of beer.
Frasier clears his throat. “Yes, well, some of us prefer to engage our cerebral cortex before acting.”
“And some of us overthink everything until the moment passes,” comes the retort.
“A Jedi acts when action is needed,” Anakin says. “Hesitation can be deadly.”
“You see, Frasier?” A gesture with the beer can. “The kid gets it.”
“Yes, because battlefield decisions translate so well to everyday life,” Frasier mutters, refilling his coffee cup with more force than necessary.
“You’d be surprised,” comes the quiet reply. “The line between everyday choices and life-or-death ones is thinner than most people realize.”
Something in his tone makes them all fall silent.
“He’s been with us nearly a week now, this visitor from the stars. The communication device he built from my stereo components sits idle — he claims the signal can’t penetrate ‘this dimension,’ whatever that means. Part of me wonders if he’s truly trying to leave at all. There’s a restlessness in him, yes, but also a curious peace that seems to settle over him in quiet moments. As if here, away from his war and his duties, he’s found something he didn’t know he was seeking.”
The living room is dark except for the blue glow of the television, playing an old war movie Martin has insisted on. On the screen, explosions bloom and soldiers charge across muddy fields.
“We used tactics like that on Mygeeto,” Anakin comments. “Didn’t work much better for us than it did for them.”
A grunt of agreement. “Brass never learns. War to war, planet to planet — sounds like it’s all the same.”
“Some things are universal, I suppose.”
They watch in companionable silence as the battle rages on screen. Frasier, pretending to read in the corner, observes them surreptitiously over his book. His father passes Anakin a beer without looking, which he accepts with the same unconscious ease.
“You miss it?” Martin asks suddenly. “The action?”
A moment of consideration. “Not the killing. But the purpose, the clarity — knowing exactly what needs to be done. Civilian life is… messier.”
“Tell me about it.” A shift in the chair. “Took me years to adjust after getting my badge taken away. Still don’t feel right some days.”
“At least you had a choice about leaving.”
A knowing look. “Did I? Bullet in the hip didn’t leave me a lot of options.”
“But you built a life afterward,” Anakin insists. “A family.”
“Had the family already. Boy, did having kids change things.” A chuckle, then seriousness. “You got anyone waiting for you back… wherever you’re from?”
A long pause. “It’s… complicated.”
“Isn’t it always?” Martin raises his beer in a silent toast, which Anakin mirrors.
In his corner, Frasier realizes he’s been reading the same paragraph for ten minutes.
“I’ve always considered myself an exemplary host, listeners. My dinner parties are meticulously planned, my wine pairings impeccable. But hosting someone who claims to be from another galaxy altogether? Emily Post offers no guidance there. And yet, I find myself dreading the moment our guest announces he’s found a way home. There’s something profoundly affecting about his presence — this blend of power and vulnerability, wisdom beyond his years coupled with an almost childlike wonder at aspects of our world we take for granted.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Frasier says as he and his brother sit at their regular table at Café Nervosa. “About Anakin.”
“I should hope so,” comes the reply over a sipping latte. “You have a purported interstellar visitor living in your apartment.”
“Yes, well. What if he’s not… what if he’s not actually from another galaxy?”
A raised eyebrow. “You’re suggesting his stories are delusions after all?”
“Not exactly. What if they’re metaphors? What if this ‘Galactic Republic’ and ‘Clone War’ are symbolic representations of something traumatic he experienced? Perhaps he was in an actual war — Afghanistan, Iraq — and this elaborate narrative is his mind’s way of processing it.”
“That would explain certain things,” Niles concedes. “His tactical knowledge, his comfort with Martin…”
“The missing hand,” Frasier adds quietly.
“But the telekinesis? The mind tricks? You said yourself you witnessed them.”
A frown into his coffee. “Did I? Or did I see what I expected to see? The power of suggestion is remarkable. Perhaps I wanted to believe so badly that my perception was altered.”
“This is quite a reversal. You were the one convinced of his otherworldly origins.”
“I know. But which is more likely? That he’s a traumatized veteran with an elaborate coping mechanism, or that he’s literally a space wizard from another dimension?”
A thoughtful pause. “Occam’s razor would suggest the former.”
“Exactly.” Frasier nods firmly, then deflates slightly. “And yet…”
“And yet?”
“There’s something in his eyes. Something ancient and terrible and beautiful all at once. When he speaks of the stars, it’s as if he’s remembering rather than imagining.”
Niles studies his brother. “You want it to be true, don’t you? You want there to be more out there than what we know.”
A rueful smile. “Isn’t that the most human desire of all?”
“He left this morning, listeners. I awoke to find him dressed once more in those strange robes, standing by the balcony as the sun rose over Elliott Bay. ‘It’s time,’ he said simply. No explanation of how he would return, or what had changed to make it possible now. Just a certainty that his moment had come.”
“You’ve been very kind,” Anakin says, extending his hand to Frasier. “Your hospitality won’t be forgotten.”
“Yes, well.” A clasp of the offered hand, noting the firmness of the grip. “It’s not every day one hosts a Jedi Knight.”
Martin rises from his chair with some effort. “You take care of yourself out there, kid. Try not to get shot at too much.”
“I make no promises,” comes the reply with a hint of a smile. He clasps the older man’s shoulder briefly — a gesture Frasier can’t recall seeing him make with anyone else. “Thank you for… for everything.”
“Ah, it was nothing,” Martin waves dismissively, but his eyes betray him.
Daphne sweeps forward to enfold Anakin in a hug that clearly surprises him. “You be careful out there in space,” she insists. “And remember what I told you about talking to this mystery woman of yours...”
“I will, thank you Daphne,” he promises, looking both embarrassed and touched.
Eddie barks once, circling Anakin’s legs.
“Yes, even you pal, take care of Martin for me,” he murmurs, crouching to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “Though I still don’t understand how you always knew wherever I was approaching.”
Straightening, a Jedi moves toward the balcony doors. Outside, the sky has brightened to a pale blue that matches his gaze, the last stars fading to light.
“Will we ever know if you made it back?” Frasier asks. “If you won your war?”
A pause, hand on the door. “Some stories aren’t meant to be heard to their end,” comes the soft reply. Then, with a nod that encompasses them all, he steps onto the balcony and closes the door behind him.
They watch through the glass as he stands motionless, face tilted toward the fading stars. A breeze stirs his robes, though the air is still. Then — between one blink and the next — he’s gone.
“Did we truly host a visitor from another galaxy? Or was he, as Niles suggests, simply a troubled soul with an elaborate fantasy? I find I don’t need the answer. What matters is what he awakened in us — that sense of wonder, of possibility. The reminder that the universe is vast beyond comprehension, filled with stories we can scarcely imagine.
“And perhaps that’s what binds us all, listeners — whether we come from Seattle or Coruscant or places beyond naming. Our stories, our struggles, our search for connection across the void. So tonight, when you look up at the stars, remember: somewhere out there, someone may be looking back, wondering about you.
“This is Dr. Frasier Crane, wishing you good mental health — and clear skies… for stargazing.”