Psychometry was a common enough Force talent, and he's always been good with it. On contested ground it could be overwhelming, here Vader could pick out each visitor. Could tell her handmaidens all still made regular trips. Her sister. Her nieces. People he didn't know but knew of, former Queens he'd met once or twice, the puppet Queen Palpatine installed, her advisors and security team. Gungans.

Vader weaves his way through the echos, across the stone pad, up the stairs Padmé had climbed so many times.

Paused at the small stone idol she'd placed of her moon goddess when she had brought the large ones to Coruscant, crowned with a headdress Padmé had oft wore a likness of. The stone was marred, two red dots on her cheeks, a red mark splitting her lower lip, her thumbnails marked white. Luke wouldn't recognize it of course, but Vader did.

A young queen, somber and resolute, face painted white, royal robes of red. Dots of symmetry of her cheeks, a mark of remembrance on her lower lip, thumbnails painted white (the only personal custom she'd added to the royal markup). My fate will be no different than that of our people.

He didn't mean to stop. To project that image, those words, into the Force, to add to the echos already here, to place his free hand reverently against the body of the idol, head bowed. But he doesn't stop for long, continuing to usher Luke up and inside.