"Yeah," the boy echoed, inadvertently adopting the same gloomy tone, "one day." 

When his master had fallen, in the temple's cargo bay before the mob of invaders, Jerek hadn't been thinking much about the future. In his mind, he had been back at the hospital, seated by the side of the bed as his older counterpart, looking much paler and thinner than he had in life, machines beeping in a concerto of imminent warnings. The padawan's heart had broken that day, but his Noghri master had taken it in stride. To Vor'loch, Jerek was not the-boy-who-lost-his-twin-brother, not just a broken failure of the Jedi teachings against attachment, but a padawan just in need of healing. With Vor'loch, the healing had begun; a master to fill the burning hole in his heart. 

The sight of his master across the medbay made his heart flutter, warmed by the presence of his master as the padawan pair entered the room. It was immediately tempered by the view of the Noghri suspended in the glowing, blue liquid of the bacta tank, an all-too-real reminder of the current frailty of his master's body. The sandy-haired youth drew close to his mentor, his mouth hanging open in a half-formed word. 

Uneasy, Jerek pondered on what to say. He was sure that Vor'loch would not be proud of the way the padawan had charged ahead, with no regard for his own life, in a poorly-designed defense. Jerek couldn't fathom that his master would appreciate how he had been neglecting his meditations, or his lightsaber form disciplines. Nor did Jerek think his master would be warmed by platitudes or the empty words most lifeforms seemed to employ when in the presence of sickness. 

"I—" the boy began, hoping the words would come to him after that. They didn't. He stood there for a moment, the padawan before his master, until finally the sandy-haired youth spoke once more. "I'm here, master."