Jakku's wind erases everything, footprints, wrecked hulls, even the memory of those who never come back.
Rey grew up in that desert, learning to strip Star Destroyers for three ration portions, her gaze fixed on a horizon that never promised her a thing.
You don't become chosen by hoping to be. You become it, sometimes, simply by refusing to vanish into the sand like everything else.
Tamriel's old texts say power there rarely picks those who ask for it out loud.
It drifts instead toward those who've learned, out of necessity, to stand alone, the way a flame favors a wick that's already weathered the wind.
Rey knows nothing of Tamriel or its gods, but her story would read there without effort, that of an orphan grown too stubborn for any force, whether from the Mages Guild or a galaxy far away, to keep from noticing her.