Chirrut is the Temple of the Kyber and the guardians of the Whills; he’s the history on the walls, the Jedha dust lingering on every surface. He's all of it; he's the good days as kids, when Baze believed he was one with The Force, and the bad days that Baze won't mention, even though Chirrut can somehow read them on him— like Baze is one of those sacred texts he'd breeze through, fingers flying through the pages.

“We grow old together,” he always starts on those days, leaning on his lightbow as he spins tale after tale of their days after the Empire is defeated, and Baze always pretends he isn't listening, but he leans closer, and closes his eyes.