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Maybe it was at the hospital, or the service, or when she stood there and watched the door of Frieda’s room get closed and locked for the last time. Never to be opened again. Maybe it was when Frieda’s name became something unsaid in the house, unless it was used to tell the rest of them to be more like their older sister. Maybe it was when her father didn’t show a single sign of grief, or when her mother kept going on with that perfect smile.

The Reiss family didn’t mourn; they moved on.

And Silke couldn’t.

She tried so hard to wear the same blank expression her father wore, to speak in the same soft, measured tones her mother did. But it cracked. First in whispers, then in sobs. In the hallway. In the car. Once, most humiliatingly, in the middle of a dinner she never wanted to attend. The way no one met her eyes, the silence her father gave her in the following days, told her everything: she was the problem. Her grief was too loud. Too messy.

They wanted her to be the perfect daughter, to follow in Frieda’s footsteps… Until what? She landed in her own grave, too? Until there was nothing left of her but a framed photograph on the mantel and a name that no one dared to say.

She learned how to lie. How to smile. How to say, “I’m fine, thank you,” and nod along with her mother’s endless party conversations, even when she wanted to scream. She gave them what they wanted—until she couldn’t anymore. Until she had no choice but to neatly pack her things, say her goodbyes with that fake smile, and leave the city that had whittled her into something she barely recognised.

Because when someone you love disappears and no one speaks their name, not even to say they miss them—when the world keeps spinning and the dinner parties keep happening and you’re expected to smile through all of it—it starts to feel like maybe you disappeared, too.

Silke doesn’t want to vanish.

As she drives toward her destination, with the sun starting to rise and a familiar song playing on the radio, she doesn’t cry. She doesn’t look back one last time at the city she called home her entire life. She doesn’t give her phone a second glance when a message from her brother comes in.

She keeps her eyes on the road, on the path forward.

‧₊˚ chapters:

001. the path forward.

summary: welcome to trost! starting off the new school year, silke reiss tries to adjust to a strange, new place and her sister’s group of old friends.

002. do you know what you started?

summary: with the weekend finally here, silke attends floch forester’s party and meets new faces and friends. alongside a boy who catches her—literally—off guard.

003. it’s so sweet.

So, Silke moved on. She assumed Historia had just seen a flyer on a bulletin board somewhere on campus—one of those sad little tear-tab signs with a first name, maybe a "no pets allowed," and a grainy photo of a couch. She figured Historia was taking a wild shot in the dark. The offset chance that Silke would be fine with moving away from everything and everyone she had ever known to live with a complete stranger.

But then Historia called—not texted, but called. Silke had braced herself for some awkward sales pitch about a girl from one of Historia's classes or maybe someone she met at a party once. What she didn't expect was for the name Verena to come up.

They'd grown up together in Mitras—their mothers inseparable best friends since before either of them were born. Verena had lived with Silke's family for almost a year after her mother passed away, before moving away to live with her dad in Trost.

Now that Silke is standing in front of the door, staring at the golden '139' hanging off the wood, she can't shake off the gnawing feeling that moving here—leaving Mitras, giving up everything familiar, and gambling on some half-baked plan—was going to be either the best, or worst, idea of her life.

She lifts her hand to knock, hesitates, then does it anyway before she can talk herself out of it. The door opens fast and a woman is there in the doorway with a bright smile, like she had been on the other side just waiting for Silke to knock.

"You must be Silke." Dana, she assumes. Verena said she had another roommate, a close friend, who also attended Trost State. She's tall—at least taller than Silke—with a confident kind of posture that makes her seem even taller.

Her dark curls are pulled up into a loose ponytail, with strands gracefully framing her glasses. The oversized red and black jersey hanging off one shoulder is unmistakably not hers—especially with "Braun" and the number 31 printed boldly on the back in blocky white lettering. The sleeves nearly reach her elbows, and the hem grazes the top of her thighs.

Behind her, Silke catches a glimpse of the apartment: a nice four person dining table is set in the back with a small potted plant sitting in the centre, there are paintings hanging off the walls, and the cream-coloured couch is large and pressed into the corner of the room.

On that couch sits a man with blonde hair, broad shoulders, and a build that practically dwarfs the throw pillow tucked under his arm. The sleeves of his grey hoodie are rolled up to his forearms.

"Reiner, come say hi," Dana chirps happily, then steps aside to let Silke in. There's something warm and casual in the way she gestures toward the space, like she's offering her more than just an apartment—maybe a new beginning, maybe a temporary refuge. Maybe both.

"Hey, you must be Silke." Reiner lifts the arm that had been resting over the back of the couch to wave towards her, as a smile stretches across his face. "Welcome."

There's a pause where Silke thinks she should say something back, but she's still registering how out of place she feels—and how bizarrely normal this all seems for them. Dana and Reiner look like they've been living in this apartment for years, like they belong here. And maybe that's the point. Maybe this is what starting over looks like: standing in the doorway of someone else's life, waiting to be let in.

"Hi," she says finally. "Thanks."

"Uh, Verena's not home..." Dana tells her after a moment, still wearing that same warm smile as she leads Silke out of the doorway and further into the apartment. "I hope that's okay."

"She said she had work." Silke gives a half-smile, unsure where to stand, what to say. The apartment already smells like someone's cooked lunch recently—something with eggs and garlic and maybe cheese—and the room is cozy in a way that feels lived-in. Nothing like the superficial, hardly used living room in her house back in Mitras.

"I figured Historia would be with you," Dana says, peeking over Silke's shoulder like she expects to see their mutual friend hauling a box up the steps.

"She's running late. Ymir's driving." Silke shrugs her bag higher on her shoulder. "I think they stopped for gas, or snacks, or—something."

As if summoned, Silke's phone buzzes. A message from Historia lights up the screen, covering the pink lockscreen: "Five mins out! I brought your favorite chips. Can't wait to see your face 🥹💛"

Despite the looming anxiety of this whole move to Trost, Silke can't help but smile at the message. God, it's been too long since she's seen Historia face-to-face. The last time Historia and Verena made the trip up to Mitras, it hadn't been for the best of circumstances...

"They've been talking about you all week," Dana says lightly, then raises a brow. "Didn't know you were Historia's half-sister."

"Yeah," Silke says, brushing a hand through her brown hair as she lifts her gaze from her phone and glances back at Dana. "Same dad. Complicated."

Dana nods like she understands, and for a second, the silence between them isn't awkward at all. Then, a chorus of footsteps and giggling echoes down the hallway outside. The front door bursts open with the force of someone who never learned how to knock first—Historia barrels in, a bag of chips in one hand and her phone in the other. Ymir follows, looking every bit the unwilling chauffeur, sunglasses still on indoors and a scowl carved into her face like it's permanent.

"Silke!" Historia cries, and then she's crossing the room in three bounding steps to pull her half-sister into a tight hug that nearly knocks Silke off balance. "You're really here! Oh my god, it's real. This is happening!"

Silke laughs into her sister's hair, breathless from the force of the hug. "It is. I'm here."

Ymir walks inside, casually peeling off her jacket and throwing it over the back of one of the dining chairs. "You haven't brought up any of your boxes?" She questions flatly, her eyes scanning over a room that looks exactly the same as it did before Silke arrived. "What, were you waiting for us to do all the hard work?"

"Ymir," Historia hisses softly, finally letting go of Silke so she's able to turn around and face her girlfriend. "You offered to help, remember?"

"It's fine." Silke waves off her sister's warning. "By now, I know how Ymir shows her love and affection. Harshly."

Ymir scoffs, "You'll know the inside of your suitcase almost as well as you know me when I ship you back to Mitras if you don't march downstairs and help me with those boxes."

"Reiner will help, too." Dana offers with a smile, even when Reiner turns around in his seat to glance at her with a raised brow.

"Will I?" Reiner asks, but there's no real bite behind the words. He's lounging on the couch, with an arm thrown lazily over the back, comfortable in a way most people only are in their own homes.

"Only if you want to keep your girlfriend," Dana says sweetly, but there's a sharpness to her smile that makes it clear she's not really asking as she walks up behind the couch and leans over to kiss his cheek.

Reiner sighs, dramatically pushing himself up from the couch like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. "Fine, fine. But if I throw my back out carrying someone else's life uphill, I expect compensation—"

"Deal," Silke says quickly, before anyone else can argue. The truth is, she's grateful. She hadn't been sure how this was going to go—if she was walking into a cold space where she'd feel like a guest in her own home. But Dana and Reiner are warm, and she knows this apartment will start to feel more like home once Verena is back.

It's different from back home in Mitras, where she walked around her own house like she was walking on eggshells. Here, it feels like the beginning of something completely new.

"I'll help too," Historia chimes in, even as Ymir's eyebrows shoot sky-high. "Don't look at me like that," she adds, grabbing Ymir's hand before she can protest. "I want to see Silke's new room before she messes it all up."

"Oh my god," Dana says, suddenly turning back toward Silke with that same excited look she had when she opened the door. "Wait until you see what Historia did. She told me you were leaving most of your stuff behind, so—well, I'll let her show you."

"What?" Silke blinks. "Show me what?"

"You'll see," Historia sings, practically bouncing as she grabs Silke's wrist and starts tugging her down the hallway, toward the back of the apartment. "Come on, come on!"

Dana calls after them, "I put the dresser together myself! If it wobbles, it's part of the charm!"

Historia leads Silke down the short hallway with a giddy energy that makes it impossible not to smile. Her grip on Silke's wrist is firm but gentle, the way it always was when they were younger—pulling her into rivers, rooftop gardens, school dances she swore she wasn't going to.

The hallway is lined with framed photos—Dana and Reiner on some sort of hiking trail, some photos of Verena and her boyfriend, a somewhat blurry group selfie in front of a bonfire, and various other photos of that same friend group.

"I wanted to surprise you," Historia says over her shoulder, her voice bubbling with excitement. "And no, before you ask, Ymir didn't help. It was all Dana, Verena and I."

They stop in front of a white door at the end of the hall. It's slightly ajar. Historia pauses dramatically, then throws the door open with both hands and declares, "Welcome home!"

Silke steps inside, and freezes.

The room is small but, with the lace curtains pulled back, the sunlight pours in from the city outside. A double bed sits against the far corner with a pale quilted comforter in a dusky pink, layered with fluffy white pillows. A wooden desk sits near the bottom of the bed, the side of it pressed to the wall with the window while the front faces a wall carrying a small pin-board that already has a few polaroid pictures Historia and Verena must've brought over from their own collections of photos.

Most of them were taken back in Mitras, featuring the three of them.

The dresser is pushed against the wall to the left of the door—painted a gentle sage green, slightly uneven in places but charming, just like Dana had promised. On top of it, there's a framed photo of Silke and Historia sitting on either side of their older sister, Frieda, when they were kids—back when they still wore matching hair clips they had to trick Historia's mother into buying, and too-big sneakers that made them look even smaller next to Frieda.

Silke's left hand tightens around the handle of the bag hanging from her shoulder as she steps into the room, her heart stuttering in her chest as she reaches her right hand out to carefully lift the photo frame. She doesn't even remember when it was taken.

She and Historia don't look any older than twelve, so it was likely around the time Historia moved away from Mitras. She and Frieda both have black hair in the photo, but Frieda's had been tied back in a braid and covered by those straw hats she always loved wearing.

The sight of the photo brings a hollow ache to Silke's chest, sharp and sudden. Frieda's smile beams through the glass, the kind of smile that always made it feel like everything was going to be okay, even when it wasn't.

Silke sucks in a deep breath, willing herself to stay strong. She won't cry. Not now. Not here.

A quiet breath leaves her lungs as she gently sets the frame back down on the dresser. She could unravel right now. Could sit on this brand new bed and sink into the memories like quicksand, or she can fake a smile and act like the world doesn't still feel like it's falling apart.

She settles for the latter.

"I can't believe you did all this," she says, turning back to Historia with a small smile plastered across her face. All she can do is hope that her sister doesn't see right through her. "You bought furniture? For me?"

Historia's smile returns, a little sheepish now. "Well, I didn't want you to have to sleep on the floor your first night," she says, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. "And I know you were leaving a lot behind, and you've been... going through a lot."

Silke sits beside her, dropping her bag onto the floor. "You didn't have to do all of this," she tells her. "I mean, seriously, Historia. It's not like I've been cut off, I could've bought furniture myself."

"But I wanted to do this for you." Historia responds, dropping her hand over Silke's and squeezing it softly. "And like I said, I really didn't want you sleeping on the floor your first night here in Trost. What if you hated it and decided to head back home? I've been waiting months for you to move up here.”

She sighs, "At least let me pay you back."

Historia shakes her head before the words are even fully out. "Nope. Not happening."

She gives her a pointed look. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," Historia says, folding her arms but keeping that same stubborn tilt to her chin. "Let me do this one thing for you. You needed a fresh start, and I wanted to help. That's what sisters are for, right?"

For once, Silke doesn't try to argue. She just nods, a faint smile tugging at her lips, and lets herself lean her shoulder into Historia's. Faintly, she can hear the others returning into the apartment —probably with some of her boxes, if Ymir's complaints about being roped into manual labour were any indication.

She lets out a breath, rubbing her hands against her jeans for a second before she rises to her feet. "I should probably go help them, before Ymir realises she has free reign over all of my belongings."

Historia snorts, already flopping backward onto the bed like she belongs there too. "As much as she complains, Ymir's happy you're here, too."

Silke's gaze softens for a moment, before her eyes flick to the half-shut door, then back to her sister. "So, what's the deal with Reiner?" She asks quietly. "I mean, does he live here too? Did I skip over that part in the agreement?"

"No, no." Historia shakes her head. "He lives across town with Bertholdt. He just stays here a lot cause, well, Dana's here." Noticing the look Silke's sending her way, she lets out a soft sigh. "He's a really nice guy, I promise. You'll barely notice he's here most of the time!"

Before Silke has the chance to respond, the door of the room creaks open with a gentle push from Ymir's foot. She stands in the doorway, a box in her arms as her eyes scan across the room to find Silke. "Alright, where do you want them?"

"Oh, uh–" Silke looks around for a moment, before pointing towards an empty spot in the corner between the dresser and the bedside table. "Just put it over there for now. I'll unpack later tonight."

Ymir steps into the room, carefully placing the box down while Historia pushes herself up to lean back on her elbows. "Oh!" Historia grins, her eyes lighting up with an idea, "Ymir, we should take her to Maria's for dinner!"

Silke tilts her head. "Maria's?"

"It's this little place down the street from the school." Historia explains giddily. "Sort of a diner, but like, with actual good food. We go there all the time, usually at the end of the week when classes wrap up."

She doesn't admit it aloud, but something about a small, slightly run-down diner feels perfect for her first night here. It's the kind of place she would've killed to escape to back home—somewhere loud and warm and worn-in with no expectations, no high standards to live up to.

Silke smiles—this time for real—as she nods. "Yeah. That sounds perfect. Let's go after we finish bringing the rest of my stuff up.”

"I'll text Verena," Historia offers, "Let her know to meet us there after work."

After her boxes have been carried out of her car and into the room she'll be calling home for the foreseeable future, the group leaves for Maria's Diner. Just a few streets away from Trost University, it's a place Silke believes she would've never looked at twice without Historia's friends' encouragement.

Maria's Diner sits nestled between a laundromat and a little florist shop, its red neon sign buzzing faintly in the dusk. The inside is warm, and the scent of something sweet wafts through the air as Silke follows the others inside.

They slide into a booth near the window, Historia tugging Silke in beside her while Ymir and Dana take the seats across from them. Reiner lingers near the counter for a second, grabbing a few menus from the stack and tossing one down in front of each of them before settling in next to Dana, his arm casually slung over the back of her seat.

As they chat amongst themselves, Silke's gaze scans over the diner. There's a jukebox in the corner, softly playing something jazzy. A tired server with a short blonde ponytail waves at them from behind the counter and mouths, be right with you, like she already knows this group by heart.

"So, uh," Silke's eyes flicker back to the others. "How often did you say you guys come here?"

"Every week," Dana answers immediately, grinning at her from across the table. "Sometimes more if we're drunk, or high. Or stressed."

The bell above the door jingles behind them, and a gust of cool air follows a tall figure through. Silke glances over her shoulder just in time to see Verena step inside, shaking out her hair and tucking her phone into her jacket pocket. Her eyes find their booth easily, and she heads over with a tired smile.

A boy with blonde hair follows shortly behind her, a light blue sweater vest hanging over his white shirt. When they reach the table, Silke and Historia scoot over to make space for them. Verena slides in beside Historia while the boy hesitates, his hand tightening just slightly around the strap of the messenger bag slung over one shoulder.

"Silke, this is Armin," Verena says, waving a hand toward him as she settles in.

Armin gives a kind, if slightly shy, nod. "Hi. It's really nice to meet you."

"You too," Silke smiles politely up at him.

"We've been trying to get you to come out with us for weeks," Dana interrupts, her arms crossing as she leans them against the table. "Verena finally wear you down?"

Verena shrugs, smiling just a little. "He needed a break. We were unpacking new shipments all day, and I wasn't about to let him eat another of Eren's shitty dinners."

At that, Armin gives her a look that's somewhere between grateful and sheepish. There's a subtle shift in his expression when he looks at Verena—nothing overt, nothing obvious. But Silke catches it. A flicker of something softer.

If anyone else notices, they don't say anything. Reiner's busy debating something with Ymir, and Historia's leaning over the table trying to convince Dana to split fries.

Silke turns back to Armin, somewhat intrigued. "So, what's it like working at a bookstore? I always wanted to, but my dad thought it was a waste of time."

Armin blinks, then laughs lightly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Honestly? It's a lot of alphabetizing and pretending not to eavesdrop on people's arguments in the aisles. But... It's good. Quiet, too, so there's a lot of time to read or study between customers sometimes."

"It's great until his friend Connie tries to get us to give him text books for free," Verena complains lightheartedly.

Silke glances between them again—Armin leaning just a little closer without realizing it, Verena tugging her sleeves over her hands like she always does when she's comfortable. It's subtle, sure. But it's there.

She props her elbow on the edge of the table, her chin resting lightly in her palm as she studies Armin with a tilt of curiosity. "Are you from Trost originally?"

He nods, but then hesitates. "Sort of. I grew up just outside the city, but I've lived in Trost proper since high school. Now I share an apartment with—well, actually, with Eren."

At that name, something stirs faintly in Silke's memory. She narrows her eyes just a little. "Eren... that's your—" She turns to Verena. "Your brother, right? I think you mentioned him once, back when you moved."

Verena hums in confirmation, casually sipping from the water the server just dropped off. "Yeah. Dad's second marriage."

"I kind of remember," Silke says slowly. "When you moved in with your dad and his family, there was this kid who kept picking fights with your neighbors or something, right?"

"That would be Eren," Verena says dryly, but with a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"He's not that bad," Armin defends the boy, though the way he says it carries the exhausted affection of someone who's been cleaning up Eren's messes for years. The thought of that brings a smile to Silke's face—to have a friend like that, someone with you through thick and thin, it sounds nice.

"Well, he kind of sounds like a handful," Silke smiles, her gaze flicking from Armin back to Verena. "Getting into fights as a kid... Does he still do that now?"

"Of course not." Armin shakes his head slightly. "He just... He'd do anything for his friends, you know? He'd burn the city down for someone he cares about–" His eyes widen slightly, "Not that I'm encouraging that!"

"Sure," Ymir mutters from across the table, catching just enough of the tail end of the conversation to insert herself. "Give it another six months and Eren'll be on the news."

Dana laughs softly, "Honestly, I thought it'd be Bertholdt before Eren. Quiet ones are always the real threat."

Verena raises an eyebrow. "Bertholdt wouldn't hurt a fly. He apologized for stepping on a bug once."

"He also apologised to that chair he bumped into last week at Porco's," Historia chimes in, her voice soft and teasing as her eyes flick up from the menu in her hands.

Silke lets out a surprised laugh, picturing it, before she glances over at Verena. "That's your boyfriend, right?"

"Yeah," Verena says with a little nod. "Bertholdt's... he's sweet."

Across the table, Armin's smile twitches—not fading, exactly, but dipping at the edges like someone just nudged an old bruise. He ducks his head for a second, busying himself with folding and unfolding his napkin.

They fall into silence as the waitress comes over to take their order. It's only after the food is ordered, and brought out a few moments later, that the conversation starts to pick up again. "Armin, you're coming to Floch's party on Friday, right?" Historia asks curiously, stirring her milkshake with the straw as she glances towards the boy sitting further down the booth.

"His party?" Armin's nose scrunches slightly, before he shakes his head. "Uh– probably not, Historia. You know he doesn't really like me."

"Who's Floch?" Silke asks softly, her brows furrowed in confusion. "Another of your friends?"

"Friends?" Ymir lets out a laugh at the idea, "God, no! He's a leech." She swipes one of Dana's fries without shame, then shrugs. "But a useful one."

Dana nods in agreement. "He throws these big parties every few weeks. Everyone shows up, even people who don't like him."

"Silke, you're coming with us, right?" Historia turns to her with a hopeful look in her eyes. "That'll be the perfect time to introduce you to the others."

"Oh, uh, maybe?" Silke frowns a little. "But if none of you like him, then why go at all? What did he do?"

Ymir leans back against the booth with her drink in hand, staring down into the cup like she's debating whether or not it's worth saying out loud. Finally, she snorts, more bitter than amused. "He used to bully Historia," she says flatly. "Back in high school. Called her all kinds of shit. Wouldn't leave her alone."

Silke's eyes widen slightly, instinctively glancing toward her sister. Historia's head is bowed a little, her focus fixed on the milkshake in front of her as she slowly stirs it, round and round. But she doesn't deny it.

"He's a roach," Ymir continues, her tone sharper now. "Still is. Just better at hiding it when there's alcohol and a crowd to charm."

Silke watches Historia for a beat longer; she lifts her milkshake and sips from the straw like the subject doesn't touch her anymore, but her shoulders are stiff and she's pointedly avoiding looking anyone in the eyes.

Silke's lips curl into a frown, and she leans back in her seat. "That's messed up," she says. "And he just... still gets invited to stuff?"

"Not by us," Verena shakes his head. "He wouldn't go twenty feet near Ymir if he knows what's good for him."

With a small smile, Historia bumps her shoulder lightly against Silke's. "It's okay. I've got people now."

And she does, Silke thinks, glancing around the table. She barely knows half of these people, but she can tell how close all of them are. From the photos in the apartment to the way they talk to each other, they clearly care for one another deeply.

Even with all the noise and warmth around her, a cold chill runs down Silke's spine as she realises; she doesn't know what it feels like to belong like that with anyone at all.

Silke's first classes start the Wednesday after she moves in. They're fairly easy to adapt to, Professor Hange from Human Growth and Development makes sure of that. Their lecture had run a little over time, but Silke didn't mind. Hange had a way of making even textbook developmental stages feel like pieces of a bigger, fascinating puzzle. They talked about attachment theory, and somehow, Hange ended up comparing it to how people pick their seats on a bus.

The thought lingers in Silke's mind as her key clicks in the lock of the apartment door. She steps inside, greeted by the familiar creak of the hinge and the faint smell of cinnamon—one of the girls must've been baking today.

"People will pick the farthest seat from someone else unless they feel safe with them," Hange had said, hands gesturing wildly, eyes bright behind their smudged glasses. "It's not just about space. It's about trust, proximity, comfort. We reveal so much without realising it."

The words echo as Silke drifts down the hall and into her room. The door clicks shut behind her, and she shrugs her bag off her shoulder, carefully dropping it on the floor before she falls face-first onto her bed. Her limbs are heavy with a tiredness that goes far beyond just a lack of sleep.

With a sigh, she turns onto her back and stares up at the ceiling. Her mind is still back in the lecture hall, stuck on the image of that metaphorical bus. The seats filling up, people naturally gravitating toward someone—their person.

She hadn't expected the transition to Trost to come easily. She knew it would take time to settle in, to find her rhythm, even with Historia and Verena already living in the city. She just hadn't anticipated it to be so difficult leaving everything else behind.

Mitras was cold and too full of ghosts, but it had been hers. Her neighbourhood, her routine. Even the suffocating weight of her father's name had its place in the architecture of her life. The polished floors, the dinner parties, the white lies served with champagne.

She'd hated it—how fake everything felt. The stiff smiles from women who didn't care, the polite distance of classmates who only noticed her when it was useful. Her life in Mitras had been perfectly curated, like a showroom version of girlhood: all shine, no warmth. But still... it was familiar. Predictable.

Nothing here in Trost is predictable at all. It's new, it's scary.

A small part of her—the stupid, silly part—wants to run back home, tail tucked between her legs, and act like she never tried to leave in the first place. But she can't.

Silke runs a hand over her face, then presses her fingers into her temples. The low throb of a headache has been inching its way in since late afternoon, a quiet ache at the edges of everything.

After a moment, she exhales through her nose and sits up. Her eyes drift across the room, landing on the small stack of unpacked boxes still tucked in the corner of the room. She hadn't brought much with her—just the essentials: clothes, toiletries, her laptop, a few notebooks. Everything else had stayed behind in Mitras, boxed up neatly in the closet of a room she no longer calls hers.

Except for some of Frieda's things.

Silke scoots to the edge of the bed, then stands up and crosses the room to one of the smaller boxes. She kneels in front of the box and flips the top open, carefully pushing aside a sweater to reveal the books she couldn't leave behind: worn covers, bent spines, margins littered with Frieda's looping handwriting. The Prophet, The Little Prince.

She wasn't meant to take anything from Frieda's room when she left. The room has been untouched for so long now, only opened by the maid once every few weeks, but she couldn't help herself. Just like she doubts her family has even noticed she's really gone, she doubts they'd notice a few missing books from the stacked bookshelf in Frieda's old room.

Her phone vibrates in her pocket, snapping her out of her thoughts. With a sharp inhale, she pulls the phone out of her pocket and stares at the screen, just for a moment, before answering. "Hey," she says, her voice a little quiet and hoarse. She clears her throat. "Didn't expect you to call so soon. Missing me already, Charlie?"

"Obviously," Charlie answers, and she can already picture the smile on his face as he talks. "I lasted what—three whole days without calling just to complain about Alina? I deserve an award for restraint."

Silke huffs out a small laugh and crawls away from the boxes she had been sitting next to, so that she can press her back against the side of her bed instead. "How's Mitras?" She asks, wrapping an arm around her legs as she pulls them closer to her chest.

"Dull," he says with a sigh. For a moment, she can hear the faint sound of him moving something around, before he lets out a huff. "Alina's been on a tear about rehearsal schedules for the show coming up. Which is rich coming from someone who once forgot her own solo. Twice."

She grins at the memory, then rests her chin on her knee. "Is she taking it out on her classmates, or you again?"

"Me, of course." Charlie complains.

It's easy with Charlie—always has been. He doesn't tiptoe around things or pretend to be anything other than exactly who he is, which, in Mitras, had made him stand out like a sore thumb. Maybe that's part of why she'd always felt drawn to him. He never played by her family's rules, and he never expected her to, either.

"Did Historia check in on you?" He wonders after a beat, his voice a little quieter and softer now. "She said she would."

"Yeah," Silke nods, though he can't see it. "Yeah, she and Ymir helped me move in. And she kind of... coordinated my whole room, I think. With Verena and Dana."

"Your roommates, right?" He asks. "You finally making more friends, Silke?"

"Shut up." She rolls her eyes lightheartedly, then stretches her legs out across the carpet beneath her. "But, yeah, I think? I don't know. Maybe. There's a party on Friday, they want me to go with them."

"And you're going, right?"

"I don't know," she sighs, leaning her head back against the mattress and glancing up at her ceiling. "I'm still trying to adjust to my classes."

"Well," Charlie says, dragging the word out like he's lining up a punchline, "what better way to adjust than to completely ignore your responsibilities and make bad decisions at a party full of strangers?"

Silke laughs, "You are the worst influence."

"I try." There's a pause for a moment, before he continues. "Seriously, though. Maybe you should go. If not for them, then for you. Just to see. You don't have to stay the whole night or pretend to be into it if you're not. Just... show up."

Tilting her head to the side, Silke chews on the inside of her cheek as she thinks it over. She wants to protest, but she knows Charlie's right. She's spent enough time watching the world from the sidelines—too much time practising smiles, and lies, and only speaking when spoken to—she moved here for a reason.

"I'll think about it." Still, she can't bring herself to let go of it all so easily. Her family's lessons were ingrained into her soul, embedded into her being.

"Thinking about it usually means no," Charlie teases.

"Not always."

"Mm-hm." She can practically hear his smirk. "Well, in the event that you do decide to be brave and social, I'll need a full update. Between classes and getting Alina to and from rehearsal, I've been too busy for a functional social life."

Silke chuckles softly, "Tell her I said good luck. And I'm sorry I'll be missing it this year."

"A year of missing her violin solo. I almost envy you." He's moving again, sitting up maybe, before he speaks. "Who am I going to talk to through the performance this year? It's weird here without you."

Her smile fades into something softer and smaller. "It's weird here, too."

"I'll just have to come down there and visit when you've settled in," Charlie decides. "I could bring Jonah and Alina with me, make it a road trip."

"And make Alina suffer through you and Jonah bickering the whole way here?" Silke grins, just as a soft knock echoes on her door. She glances over at the door. "Hey, Charlie, hold on a sec."

Dana's voice follows a beat later. "Silke? Verena and I were thinking Chinese tonight. You want anything?"

Silke shifts, holding the phone away from her mouth just enough to answer, "Yeah—give me a second, I'll come look."

"No rush!" Dana calls back, and Silke can hear the sound of her footsteps retreating toward the kitchen, followed by the familiar thud of cabinet doors opening and closing. The sound and warmth of life in the apartment still catches her off-guard sometimes, when back in Mitras everything was silent and cold.

She brings the phone back to her ear. "Sorry. Roommates checking in." It's all so strange, and a little messy, and totally unlike Mitras—but it's hers now. Or it's starting to be, she thinks. "I should probably go before they order dinner without me."

"Fine, fine. Just don't forget to text me if you're going to that party!'

"I won't," she rolls her eyes. "And thanks, Charlie. For calling."

"Always." He hangs up with a click, and the room is quiet again. A quietness that leaves Silke immobile for a moment, still sitting on the floor of her room with her eyes trained on the now dark screen of her phone.

At least for a moment, until the screen lights up once again, this time with an incoming message from her brother. Dirk's name sits on the screen like a warning, with an even more haunting message to follow: Hey. Still coming to family dinner on Friday?

Clicking on the notification, she finds her thumb hovering over the keyboard as she hesitates. After a moment, she simply locks the phone and gently tosses it onto her bed as she rises to her feet. "Hey, guys," she calls out, crossing her arms over her cardigan as she steps out of her room and walks into the kitchen. Dana's standing at the bench, staring down at the takeout menu, while Verena sits across from her on one of the barstools. "I think I'll come on Friday, after all."