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The florist | Eren Jaeger 07

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Yuriel hadn't meant to follow her that day.

But the moment he saw Zeke Jaeger's face—calm, unreadable beneath the brim of his cap, standing too close to her flower stall—something inside him turned to ash. That particular kind of burn that doesn't spark, doesn't scream, just simmers. Quiet and slow. A fever that coils in your gut and stays.

Now, it lived in him. Bitter and hot and aching.

The memory kept playing like it was trying to prove something. Zeke's mouth moving slow, every word heavy. [Y/N]'s gaze flicking to the side, sharp and deliberate. She hadn't smiled. She hadn't flinched. Her face was still, unreadable, like she knew exactly what she was doing and didn't want him to know. That wasn't a customer. That wasn't anything close. That was something else. Something bigger. And whatever it was—she hadn't told him. Not a word.

He was across the square now, pretending to browse behind a butcher's cart, sweat sticking to the back of his neck even though the wind was cool. His hands were buried deep in his coat pockets, knuckles white. He told himself he was just walking home. Just passing through. That this wasn't watching. That this wasn't turning into something ugly.

But she moved like she was carrying something she wasn't ready to share.

And he knew, better than anyone, how secrets could rot a person from the inside.

"You shouldn't talk to him." That's what he should've said. Should've shouted. Should've dragged out of his throat the second he saw them together. But he hadn't. Because things weren't like that anymore. They hadn't been since the test. Since their mother died. Since [Y/N] stopped looking at him like he was someone she could trust.

He swallowed hard, jaw clenched like he could crush the memory between his teeth.

He had remembered that day like it was nothing. Just another step on a path he thought he understood. But now, in hindsight, it felt like the start of everything falling apart.

Back then, Yuriel had still been a boy. Naive enough to believe effort could shape his future. That if he wanted it badly enough, it would be his. Their mother was the center of everything, tough, smart, louder with her heart than her words. She believed in him, in [Y/N], in a future where Eldians weren't just tools. She spoke of freedom like it was real. Like it was worth chasing.

And then Zeke walked in.

Zeke, who carried power like it was stitched into his bones. Zeke, who moved like nothing could touch him. Yuriel had looked up to him in the way kids look at fire—dangerous, warm, necessary. He wanted to be like him. Respected. Feared. Unbreakable. He thought maybe if he worked hard enough, maybe if he earned the Jaw Titan, he'd matter. He'd be more than a number. He'd protect his mother. Protect his sister. Maybe he'd finally be enough.

But that dream unraveled slowly. Piece by piece.

He trained harder than anyone. He gave it everything. Not for glory. Not even for himself. For them. For something bigger. For the chance to stand between his family and the rest of the world. But the test came. And with it, the end of everything he thought he knew.

Because [Y/N] had ruined it. Whether she meant to or not—she did. And Zeke? The one person he thought might defend him? Might understand? He didn't even blink. He wasn't there. He never really had been.

Yuriel still remembered standing alone in that blank room, staring at the Marleyan insignia on the wall like it might offer him closure. Or revenge. Or something to hold onto.

He had wanted to be someone. To rise. To prove he was more than what they saw. But in the end, he wasn't chosen. He wasn't even considered.

Zeke stood for everything their mother warned them about. And still... Yuriel had waited. Had hoped. Had believed.

Like a fool.

The day dragged like a bad memory—slow, heavy, impossible to shake.

Yuriel had been following her since morning. One step behind, always just out of sight, his boots crunching against the frozen dirt loud enough for his own ears and no one else's. He told himself this was about Zeke. About figuring out what Jaeger wanted. About staying ahead of whatever danger might be coming for her.

But deep down, underneath the excuses and rationalizations, he was scared.

Terrified, really.

His fear sat in his chest like a stone. Cold. Unmoving. Unspoken.

She moved through the market as if nothing had ever hurt her. She knelt to help a child tie a lavender bundle to his basket, speaking in that voice of hers, quiet and kind and stubbornly soft. That voice could make barbed wire sound like silk. Yuriel watched from behind a butcher's cart, eyes locked on her every movement. His hands stayed buried in his coat pockets, clenched tight enough to shake.

How could she be so open?

How could she still believe in people like that?

She trusted too easily. She gave too much. And it made him feel like a stranger in his own story. Like he was watching her through a pane of glass, trapped on the outside while she moved in sunlight he hadn't seen in years.

He couldn't protect her if she didn't see the threat herself.

But it wasn't just about Zeke. It wasn't even about the danger.

It was the way she smiled at the world like it might smile back. Like there was still something worth loving in it. And Yuriel didn't know how to live in a world like that anymore—not when he'd already memorized its cruelty.

She was slipping away from him, not in distance but in spirit. Floating further and further like the petals she sold—weightless, untouchable, carried by winds he couldn't control.

And he hated how much that terrified him.

This had seemed to be the final task of her day—teaching gardening at a hospital, of all places. Something so simple. So painfully gentle. And yet, it reminded him of their mother—the quiet strength in her hands, the way she used to tuck green life into forgotten corners like she was planting hope itself.

[Y/N] had inherited that part of her. Yuriel had not.

He couldn't look into the eyes of those patients the way she did—eyes darker than twilight, colder than a night with no stars. Eyes that spoke of futures already lost, of despair too deep for words. Eyes so hollow, even the moon seemed afraid to shine on them.

These were the Eldians who had seen too much. Who carried the weight of their blood like a curse carved into their bones. Yuriel had never stood on the front lines—but even so, their gaze unnerved him. There was something in it. Something broken. Something permanent.

And still... despite everything... those eyes tried to warm the world.

Just a little.

Just enough.

Even if that light came through cracks too deep to ever truly mend.

He felt it before he saw it—that steady gaze. It had been following him since the moment he stepped into the hospital. At first, he tried to brush it off, but now it pressed against the back of his neck like a weight.

When he finally turned, his eyes met the source: a soldier. Or what was left of one.

The man sat alone on a bench beneath the bare-limbed tree, his uniform weathered, his body broken. One leg gone below the knee, a crutch leaning beside him like an old companion. Hair hung long over one eye, and what little Yuriel could see of his face was unreadable—quietly watchful, almost solemn.

"You'll get tired standing like that," the man called out, voice low and calm. "Come sit."

Yuriel hesitated, unsure why the offer sent a chill through him. Maybe it was the man's tone—too gentle for a stranger. Or maybe it was something else. Something in the way he spoke like he already knew him.

Still, something in him moved—almost against his will. He crossed the courtyard and sat at the far end of the bench, tense, alert.

A few seconds of silence passed, thick and heavy.

"I've seen you around," the man said. "You follow her like a shadow."

Yuriel stiffened. "Who?"

The man's lips curled slightly—not quite a smile, but close. "The florist. Your sister, I'm guessing."

He didn't answer.

The man extended a hand, unbothered by the tension. "Kruger. I'm just a patient."

Yuriel took the hand, brief and guarded. "I'm just trying to piece a puzzle," he muttered, eyes tired—tired of being Eldian, tired of being a soldier, tired of carrying the weight of all the things he failed to protect.

Kruger didn't respond right away. His gaze drifted—not toward Yuriel, or the garden, or even the sky.

But to her.

he started softly. "Some people are too good for this world. Makes you wonder if they're even real... or just stitched together by your mind and heart, out of all the things you ache for most."

He didn't blink. Just kept watching her with that look. That quiet, devastating look—the kind you give when you love something you know you'll never reach.

He continued to watch [Y/N], his expression a complex mix of longing and something akin to pain. Then, without turning his head,  His eyes, however, still held that look of longing, like he was watching a star, knowing he was trapped in an endless night.

Yuriel's gaze flicked from her hands to Kruger's eyes, sharp and measuring, but he didn't move closer. He didn't need to. His presence was a silent question: Is she truly safe?

Kruger shifted slightly, leaning back on the bench. He didn't reach for her. Didn't speak her name. He just watched. Respectful. Careful. Like he was cataloging the way she carried herself, the way she brought life into rooms that had long forgotten it.

"She's... remarkable," Kruger murmured, almost to himself, and Yuriel caught it, though he didn't flinch. Not from the praise. From the quiet admiration in the tone, the weight behind it.

Yuriel's hands unclenched slightly. He didn't know this man. Had no reason to trust him. But he could feel it: Kruger's regard wasn't for ownership. Not for control. It was the recognition of something fragile and rare, something worth guarding, if only from a distance.

[Y/N] bent down again to adjust the angle of a small plant, oblivious to both of them. She was entirely in her element—gentle, meticulous, unflinchingly bright. A light in the shadows, Yuriel had grown used to living in.

Kruger's voice dropped even lower, almost a whisper. "She reminds me... of why you keep going. Even when everything else falls apart."

Yuriel didn't respond. He couldn't. That was exactly it. She reminded him. She reminded him that the world still had pieces worth fighting for, even when he felt hollowed out by failure and loss. Even when Zeke's shadow still lingered over every corner of his mind.

For a moment, the three of them—Yuriel, Kruger, and her—occupied the same space without words. The market's noise faded. The cold wind pressed in, but it didn't bite. And for the first time that day, Yuriel let himself breathe, not because the danger had passed, but because she was still here, still moving, still being a reason for someone to hope.

And that was enough.

Kruger's gaze followed the long shadows cast by the bare-limbed trees, twisting across the stone like dark rivers. When he finally tore his eyes away from her, they were sharp again—cold, disciplined, stripped of the fleeting warmth that had lingered there moments before.

Slowly, he reached into the inside pocket of his coat. Yuriel stiffened, muscles coiled with tension—but Kruger produced only a small, folded slip of paper. He slid it across the wooden bench, stopping just short of Yuriel's hand, a silent offering of trust and command.

"There are those who move with quiet currents," Kruger said, voice low and measured, "never revealing the full weight of where they've been or where they'll go." His words drifted across the courtyard like smoke, leaving more questions than answers.

He nudged the paper closer with a single, crumpled blue cornflower—the same one [y/n] often pressed between her fingers—pressing the note and the flower into Yuriel's palm. The bloom smelled faintly of sun and rain, fragile and defiant, a reminder that even the smallest things could carry weight.

"Go home, soldier," Kruger continued, his tone hardening, the command wrapped in something quieter than authority—a warning. "Learn what you can before she has to. You want to matter? Stop tracing the light and start cutting through the darkness that gathers around it."

As he rose to his crutch, the courtyard seemed to lean with him. The bare trees swayed against the late afternoon wind, shadows splitting and shifting like fractured pieces of a plan waiting to unfold. Somewhere, just beyond the edges of the hospital gates, the first murmurs of action were beginning. And Kruger left Yuriel with the cryptic note, the pressed flower, and the chilling certainty that the answers he sought waited behind a door he might not be ready to open.

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@faerie-soirxx

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How strange, how bitterly ironic, that to the Eldians, Zeke Yeager was a hero. A prodigy. The golden son who would rid the world of devils.

But if you knew how to look, truly look, you'd see it. As she did. Strip away the titles, the myths, the uniform, and what stood before you wasn't a savior.

It was something far colder.

Not just a soldier. Not just a beast. But a tactician in human skin, a puppeteer of minds and loyalties, who knew precisely which strings to pull and when to pull them.

And now, as she faced him, alone, beneath the flickering light of her shuttered stall—her breath faltered. Recognition bloomed in her chest like a bruise.

The world shifted.

The wind, the silence, the cobbled street—everything felt wrong. The air grew thinner. The shadows stretched longer.

Zeke Yeager.

The Beast Titan.

He met her gaze, unblinking. Those calculating, polished eyes studied her like a problem half-solved.

"Miss Florist," he said at last, his voice low, languid, touched with something that might've been amusement. "I've been admiring your... handiwork."

He nodded toward the flower stand, empty now, its usual warmth stripped bare by the hour.

"You know Mr. Kruger, don't you?"

And suddenly, the flowers behind her felt like paper. The light above her felt like a spotlight. 

Then came the pause. Sharp. Surgical.

"How's Yuri doing?" A slow smile touched his lips. "Always a soldier, never a warrior."

And in that moment, the petals behind her felt like ash. The lamp above her buzzed like judgment.

The way he dragged out that last sentence—it irked her. Not just the words, but the way they curled from his mouth, slow and calculated.

He knew. He had been there when it happened. A silent witness to a crime that, in any other circumstance, would demand blood.

And ever since, he had carried it like a secret blade—never raised, but always shown. A quiet threat. A smirk just beneath the surface.

He taunted her with it. Not openly. That wasn't his style. But in every glance, in every idle comment, he reminded her.

Her freedom—her life—hung by a thread. 

And he was the one holding the scissors.

"I wouldn't call it... knowing," she murmured, voice delicate in the cold. "But what brings you to... me?"

Her breath curled faintly in the air. She kept her eyes steady, even as her fingers twitched near the folds of her coat. Beneath the awning, the bullet-box flower beds sat in wait, half-shrouded in shadow. Their quiet petals felt far too loud now—too alive for this moment.

Zeke didn't answer immediately. He stepped closer, the sound of his boots deliberate, muted by dust. His presence seemed to soak into the night, turning it heavier.

"You seem to have formed a... connection with Mr. Kruger," he finally said, words syrup-slow and laced with a counterfeit charm. "Quite admirable, considering his... circumstances."

There was a smile on his face, polite and false. The kind people wear when they're about to ruin something beautiful.

"Tell me, [Y/N]," he continued, tilting his head, studying her like a page he'd half-memorized. "What do you see in him? What makes you... linger?"

She blinked, once, then frowned—not in offense, but in something quieter. Confusion, maybe. Or caution.

"He's just another soldier, Zeke," she said. "Another mind I try to help forget the war."

Her voice was soft, but steady. It carried the weight of someone used to speaking to broken men.

Zeke chuckled, low and humorless. "How noble," he said. "But not everyone wants to forget. Some of us need to remember—need to carry it with us. Like a spine."

There was silence, sharp and sudden. Even the wind seemed to falter.

Then he leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping lower. "You see, the thing about kindness, Miss Florist... it can be a weapon. So long as someone knows how to twist it."

She stiffened. Just enough for him to notice. But she didn't look away.

"If you're trying to frighten me," she said, barely above a whisper, "you'll have to try harder."

Zeke studied her for a moment longer, expression unreadable. Then he smiled again—wider this time, almost fond.

"You remind me of someone," he murmured. "Someone who thought they could plant beauty in rotten soil and expect it to grow."

He turned, footsteps soft but unhurried as he began to walk away.

"You have a kind heart, [Y/N]," he called over his shoulder. "I do hope it leads you to the correct choices."

And just like that, the spell broke.

The flickering lantern above her stand buzzed faintly. The shadows stretched out again, long and reaching. His silhouette blurred into the alleys, coat stirring like smoke behind him.

She stayed still, breath held, as if the very street had forgotten how to exhale.

The wind stirred the flowers in their crates. They rustled gently—like paper. Fragile. Burnable.

And the night, for the first time in years, no longer felt like her own.

She tiredly walked inside her house, her steps no longer her own—robotic, hollow, like her body had carried her here without permission from her mind.

The door clicked shut behind her, and the silence wrapped around her shoulders like a cold shawl. No warmth, no comfort. Just quiet.

She didn't bother lighting a lamp. She knew the path too well. The creaking floorboard near the kitchen, the uneven step by the hallway. All of it muscle memory. All of it worn.

When she finally sank into bed, she exhaled deeply—one of those long, shaking breaths that felt more like a surrender than a release. Then she turned her head.

Her journal still sat on the end table, half-open to the empty page with Kruger's name penciled in faintly at the top. Waiting for something. Waiting for her to understand him, to unravel him like the others. But the page remained untouched.

She let out a dry, humorless chuckle—the kind that comes not from joy, but from weariness thick enough to drown in.

She should stop. She knew she should. There were so many reasons—logical, sound, safe reasons—why she should walk away from him, why she should let him fade into memory like the rest.

But hope had a way of blooming in her—quiet and persistent, like a weed between cobblestones, like something too soft to survive, and yet too stubborn to die.

She hated that part of herself. The part that still believed in gentle things. The part that still wanted to believe there was something worth saving in everyone—not because they deserved it, but because someone had to believe it. Someone had to try.

Even if it left her bleeding for it.

As the night dwindled on, the rain began to pour.

it tapped against the window, soft but insistent

Each drop smacked against the window like a memory trying to crawl back in. Eren sat still, eyes unfocused, as the world outside blurred into streaks of gray and silver. The sound was almost comforting. Almost.

It reminded him of Paradis. Of nights curled beneath thinning blankets, listening to Armin's whispering dreams and Mikasa's steady breath. Of his mother humming in the kitchen before the world became cruel.

And in one month, it would all be gone. Liberio. Marley. Every stone, every name, every face that ever looked at him like they knew something he didn't.

The wind picked up, sudden and sharp. The latch gave way. The window flung open with a screech, wind and water rushing in. He stood, annoyed, half ready to shut it again—

But something fluttered in.

A petal. Deep red. Torn and soft, soaked from its flight. It drifted to the floor, still clinging to some kind of shape.

His eyes flicked to the windowsill.

The bouquet Falco brought, now slightly wilted in the storm's presence, sat quietly. A little gift. A little offering from someone too kind for this world. She hadn't come herself, but she was there, in the flowers. In the color.

In the way they made the room feel like anything but a grave.

Strange, he thought. He hadn't known her long. Just a florist. A quiet one. Gentle. Observant. Too curious for her own good.

And yet, she lingered.

In his thoughts. In the corners of silence. She didn't belong here, not really, but she made it feel like maybe he did.

If he had to miss something—anything—it would be her.

Not her voice, not her smile. But the silence she ruined just by existing.

He turned back to the window.

Let the wind bite at him. Let the cold remind him of what was coming. Then, without a word, he reached out and slowly shut it.

But a thought formed in his mind.

And the fact that it even crossed his mind terrified him.

If the war took her, that would be easier.

But what was he supposed to do if it left her behind?

--

The morning after the storm, Falco found her in the market again.

Or rather, she found him—half-hidden behind a crate of onions, pretending to study price tags while sneaking glances over his shoulder every few seconds. He looked like he wanted to say something, but couldn't bring himself to walk over.

She exhaled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Now that blonde hair looks oddly familiar... must belong to my favorite Warrior candidate."

Her tone was light, mimicking her usual self, but it rang hollow. The storm had passed, yes—but its aftermath clung to her skin like damp air. Zeke's voice still echoed in the quieter moments.

Falco perked up, finally glad to be noticed. He rushed over, eager. "Hi, Miss Florist! You won't believe what happened a couple of days ago," he beamed, voice lifted by excitement. "I finally beat Gabi in a race!"

His grin was wide—earnest and boyish. But something clouded it as quickly as it came. A shadow passed behind his eyes.

She tilted her head, gentle concern pulling at her brow. "That does sound great," she said, "but there's something else, isn't there?"

He hesitated.

Yesterday should've been perfect. Beating Gabi was a milestone, one more step toward becoming the Armored Titan. He'd wanted to tell her, too. That it wasn't just about glory or pride. That he was doing it for her. So she wouldn't have to fight anymore.

But Gabi didn't hear him. Or maybe she just refused to listen.

"I guess," he said slowly, "it wasn't all that great."

There was something heavy in the way he kicked at the dust with his boot.

Still, his gaze lifted again, burning with quiet resolve. "But I promise. I'll be the Armored Titan."

His voice held no arrogance—only a fragile kind of hope. The kind built on broken dreams and too many sleepless nights.

She didn't say anything right away.

Because what could she say? She wasn't one to ruin a child's dream—especially not one carried with such pure, determined hands.

"Well," she said, folding her arms with mock sternness, "if you do, Falco... just remember—we don't rule on hate."

Her voice held a playful lilt, but her words were firm, intentional. A quiet warning tucked in warmth.

"Of course, Miss!" he nodded eagerly. "Oh! Before I forget—" Falco dug into his coat pocket, eyes lighting up. "I found this near our training grounds. Thought you might like it."

He held it out with both hands like a sacred offering.

It was just a wildflower. The kind that sprouted in sidewalk cracks or along the edge of worn-down fences. Nothing special. Easy to overlook.

And yet—she took it like it was made of glass. As if it might wither in her grasp. As if it were a gift from the world itself. Her fingers closed around the stem with reverence.

To anyone else, it was just a flower.

But to her, it was kindness. A small, unexpected mercy in a world that rarely offered any.

She looked at him, eyes softening with something too heavy to name.

"Besides," Falco added, his smile dimming slightly, "you looked like you needed a flower today."

There was no teasing in his voice. Just concern—earnest and unfiltered.

And in return, all she could offer was a small, fragile smile.

The kind that said thank you without saying anything at all.

"That was so thoughtful of you, Falco. Now I'll have to teach you how to make your own bouquet—so you can win over your rival Gaby's heart," she teased gently.

He laughed, sheepish and proud all at once.

"Well then," she smiled, brushing a bit of dust from his shoulder, "I'm sure you have training to get back to, future Armored Titan." For a moment, she envied him—his certainty. His still-burning belief that he could change something.

But she didn't let it show.

With that, she offered him a soft farewell, watching as he ran off—flowerless now, but carrying something far warmer.

She wished she could say the same.

As she tucked the wildflower behind a jar at her stall, beside the ones she had meant to throw away.

Not because it was worthless.

But because it reminded her that even things plucked too soon could still be beautiful. Even its fragile comfort couldn't quiet the echo of Zeke's voice, or the knot still twisting in her stomach.

Somehow, Two days later, she found herself on the hospital steps again.

She told herself it was nothing. Routine. Guilt, maybe. Just another visit, another set of vases to refresh. But beneath all that, quiet and undeniable, lived a question she hadn't dared say out loud.

She didn't expect to see him.

But some part of her—some small, stubborn part—hoped she would.

The halls were dim, washed in the gray hush of early afternoon. Most patients were in the cafeteria. The building felt suspended in time, like the air hadn't moved in hours. As she walked from room to room, the only sounds were the soft clinks of glass and water, the whisper of her sleeves brushing blooms. Each bouquet was replaced carefully, like an offering. Each dying stem discarded with silent grace.

Then she reached his door.

Her hand paused on the knob. Zeke's voice came back to her—low and curling like smoke. That strange warning. The way he'd spoken of Mr. Kruger unsettled her. Like Kruger was a man already caught in something vast, tangled, and closing in. Like she'd already stepped too close.

She opened the door anyway.

He was standing by the window, framed in pale light, his back to her. His long hair stirred slightly in the breeze slipping through the cracked pane. He looked thinner than before. More tired. Like time sat heavier on him than it did on the others.

"I already said I'm not hungry."

His voice was sharp, automatic. But when he turned and saw her, something in him softened. Not enough to be obvious—but the armor dropped for a single, visible second. His shoulders eased. His mouth parted slightly, as if her presence had caught him off guard.

She hesitated in the doorway. "I thought you'd be in the cafeteria."

He didn't reply right away. Just turned his face back to the window, as if the light out there was easier to meet than her eyes.

"Too many people pretending they're not sick."

She stepped inside, quiet as breath. Her gaze flicked to the bouquet by the bed—Falco's arrangement. Red plumerias. White bellflowers. Olive branches. The petals were curling at the edges now, dulled and delicate. But they hadn't been thrown away. Someone had moved them away from the sunlight. Someone had tried to keep them alive.

She didn't know what to make of that.

"I can replace them," she offered softly, brushing her fingers over the rim of the vase. "If you want."

"No," he said—immediate, low. Then quieter: "They're fine."

She looked up at him.

He wasn't watching the flowers. He was watching her.

"They're dying slower this time," he murmured, and though his tone was unreadable, something hung between the words.

A silence opened between them then—neither tense nor peaceful. Just full.

Full of things unsaid.

The distance between them felt smaller than it had before. Like grief had folded it down to nothing. Like understanding—quiet, reluctant—was beginning to replace suspicion.

She should've said something. Should've stepped back.

Instead, she let the silence stretch.

Let it hum.

"You don't seem like someone who keeps flowers," she said at last, not quite teasing, not quite questioning.

"I don't," he said, eyes still on her. "Usually."

She looked away first.

The tension didn't snap. It shifted. Grew warmer. Softer. Like the sun pressing through cloud after long rain.

He moved then, a slight limp to his gait, and passed her in the doorway without another word. But not before their shoulders nearly brushed. Not before the air between them stirred like something waking up.

She stayed in the room a little longer than she had to. Adjusted the water. Smoothed the petals. Tried not to think about the way he had looked at her.

Tried not to wonder what had kept those flowers alive.

Yet that evening, after the lingering feeling from the hospital had settled into a cold knot in her stomach, she found herself locking up the flower cart. The market, usually a bustling hub of activity, was now a ghost town. 

The kind of late where even time seemed to hold its breath. Fog curled along the narrow streets like ghosts reluctant to leave, and the market—once brimming with life—had long since gone quiet. Lanterns flickered above shuttered stalls, their weak light casting jagged shadows across cobblestones.

 Even the stray dogs had vanished, as if sensing the hush that had settled over everything. Her fingers slipped on the twine, fumbling more than they should have. Maybe it was the cold. 

Maybe it was the weight in her chest. Or maybe it was the way Mr. Kruger's voice still haunted her ears—gruff, guarded, and somehow echoing louder than it had any right to.

She tugged the tarp over the last crate of lilies, breath puffing white in the air, when she heard it.

Boots on gravel. Not rushed. Not cautious. Deliberate.

She turned.

Yuriel stood a few feet away, arms crossed, coat hanging open, mist clinging to his shoulders. His hair was damp, and his expression—tight-jawed and hard-eyed—burned hotter than the chill in the air.

"How long have you been talking to him?" he asked.

No greeting. No pretense. Just a question, quiet and deadly.

She blinked. "Who—?"

"Don't," he snapped. "Don't play stupid with me."

The silence that followed wasn't passive. It pressed down like fog on the lungs—thick, choking, unrelenting.

"I saw him," Yuriel said, stepping closer. "Zeke. The day before the storm. He was here. Talking to you."

She straightened, slowly. "It wasn't like that."

"No?" His voice cracked like a fault line. "Because from where I stood, it looked a lot like you were listening."

"He showed up," she said, each word measured, controlled. "I didn't invite him."

"But you talked to him."

"Because I didn't have a choice."

There it was. The edge she rarely let show—quiet but cut-glass sharp. Her hand tightened around the twine until it bit into her skin.

"I didn't ask for any of this," she continued. "I'm just trying to get by, Yuriel. We all are."

He let out a bitter laugh—no humor, just resentment. "Getting by? Is that what we're calling it now?"

She didn't respond.

"You think you're different?" he asked, jaw clenched. "Selling petals and poems like they mean anything in a place like this?"

She flinched, barely—but he saw it.

"I'm doing what I can."

"Are you?" His voice dropped, colder now. "Because it looks a lot like you're playing both sides."

Her breath hitched.

He didn't yell. He never had to. His words were knives dressed as whispers.

"You think flowers make you brave?" he said, stepping close enough that the fog couldn't hide the look in his eyes. "You're not a martyr."

A pause.

"You're a coward with flowers."

Her eyes met his.

No tears. No defiance. Just that quiet stillness that came when something inside you bent instead of breaking.

"You don't know everything," she said. "And you don't have to."

"I'm your brother."

"Then start acting like it."

That landed. His mouth parted—like he had more to say, like maybe it was too late to say it.

He took a step back.

"I just hope you know what you're doing," he muttered. "Before someone else pays the price."

Then he turned and walked away.

She didn't stop him.

Not this time.

The air was still, but the words lingered—hanging in the cold like smoke.

A coward with flowers.

The phrase followed her long after the sound of his boots had faded into fog.

She stood alone beneath the stall's awning, hands trembling as she exhaled into the dark.

And this time, the cold reached all the way in.

He wasn't supposed to be out of bed.

Every step was a quiet act of defiance—slow, uneven, deliberate. His weight leaned too heavily to the left, the strain cinched tight in his jaw. But the hospital air had thickened with ghosts and antiseptic, and he could no longer breathe inside it. He needed something real. Something cold, something vast. Anything but that sterile stillness.

Liberio never truly slept, but at this hour, it sighed—soft and frayed at the edges. Mist curled low along the pavement, and the faint yellow lanterns swayed like tired stars.

He didn't know where he was going.

Not until he saw her.

The flower stall was long closed—canvas drawn and tied, the scent of petals replaced by earth and smoke. But she was still there, tucked behind the crates, knees pulled to her chest. A cigarette burned low between her fingers, the ember pulsing like a dying star.

She didn't startle when she saw him.

Didn't speak.

Just shifted, barely, and made space.

He didn't ask.

He lowered himself beside her with a breath and a wince, his movements stiff, uncooperative. Sitting hurt. But standing had hurt more. And here, beside her, where the world had quieted to a murmur... it didn't matter.

She took another drag, held it, then passed it over.

No words.

He paused, then accepted it. Smoke curled against his lips, sharp and unfamiliar. It burned—but he didn't flinch.

For a while, they said nothing.

Just breathed.

The kind of silence that wrapped around two people like a blanket—heavy, warm, and worn thin by grief.

"Do you ever feel like your life already ended," he said, voice barely more than a whisper, "and no one bothered to tell you?"

He looked up at the stars, but they didn't look back.

"Like you're just... walking through the wake of it."

His words drifted, hesitant—like he hadn't meant to say them out loud.

She didn't answer right away.

When she did, her voice was soft. Brittle.

"Every day, I wake up hoping to find a reason." Her mouth curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "It's selfish. But I never made the bouquets for them."

She turned to him, searching his face as though expecting condemnation. She found none.

"I think I just... wanted them to mean something. To mean I meant something."

She let out a breath. Smoke spilled from her lungs.

"How selfish. And yet... I'm only human."

In that moment, she looked like something fragile trying not to fracture. Like a star straining against the gravity of its own fading light.

The cigarette burned down to its paper edge.

She stubbed it out against the brick behind her, fingers brushing ash from her skirt. He watched her hands, the way they moved with quiet precision, like she'd done it a hundred times before. Like the routine kept her tethered.

"You'll get in trouble for this," she said finally, voice barely louder than the wind. "Being out here."

"I already am," he muttered, mouth tilting in something not quite a smile. "Might as well earn it."

She huffed—quiet, breathy. Almost a laugh. He didn't look at her, but he felt it anyway, soft and brief like warmth passing through frostbitten air.

A gust caught the corner of his collar. It folded, limp and crooked.

She reached out without thinking. Straightened it. Smoothed the crease. Her fingers brushed his throat—light, fleeting. He went still, more out of surprise than anything else.

"You don't have to—"

"I know," she murmured. "Let me."

She moved carefully, deliberately. No rush. Her knuckles grazed his jaw as she tucked the fold back into place. The nearness felt too quiet, too fragile—like something they weren't supposed to hold.

"I used to do this for my brother," she said after a moment, her hand hovering as she let the fabric go. "Before things changed."

Eren's eyes found hers. He didn't ask. But the weight of everything left unsaid sat between them.

He shifted to rise. Every part of him resisted. Bone, tendon, breath. But her presence grounded him more than the ground itself. He pushed up—slow, tense—until he was standing again.

Then he saw it: a faint smear of ash across her sleeve.

He reached out. Not sudden. Not showy. Just the side of his hand, brushing it away—quiet, measured, almost reverent.

"You'll catch fire," he said, something dry in his tone. "Wearing things like this."

"Better that than dust," she replied. Her voice didn't waver.

They stood like that for a beat too long. His hand still close to her arm. Her fingers still half-curled from fixing his collar. Two people caught in a moment neither could name and neither wanted to leave.

But something passed between them anyway. Something neither of them dared name.

For a breath, they lingered like that—her hand still half-curled from fixing his collar, his fingers just lowered from her coat.

Then he took a step back.

"You should go in," he said, voice low. "Before the cold gets worse."

She didn't move.

Neither did he.

But eventually, he turned, the limp more obvious now in the dim streetlight.

And just before the mist took him, he said—without looking back:

"Thanks... for the warmth."

Then he was gone.

And she was left behind, fingers resting on her coat sleeve as if his touch had left something behind.

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@faerie-soirxx

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The euphoric smell of plumerias often reminded people of new beginnings. Their creamy-sweet scent lingered in the morning air like a promise—warm, gentle, and just out of reach.

She had never seen the ocean, but she liked to imagine it. The scent of salt, the sweep of wind, the rustle of waves—she pictured them folding over one another like silk. In her small corner of Liberio, surrounded by cracked stone and rusted fences, she closed her eyes and breathed in the plumerias, pretending it was sea breeze. Something soft. Something bright. Something free.

It helped her forget, if only for a moment.

But the sound of coughing down the street, the clatter of boots, the distant bark of orders—those reminders came quickly. The illusion peeled away, and she was still there, behind her florist stand, surrounded not by waves, but by the weight of the internment zone.

"Good morning, Ms. F... florist." She turned at the voice, recognizing it immediately—it was the sweet boy from the hospital. Mr. Kruger's quiet companion.

She smiled and leaned on her stand, angling herself to see him better. "Well, good morning to you too, Falco. How can I help you?"

He shifted awkwardly, gaze darting to the flowers, a folded letter clutched in one hand. "I—I'd like to buy a bouquet. I... if that doesn't bother you!" His voice wavered, as if afraid just asking was too much.

[Y/N] tilted her head slightly, the fondness in her expression softening. She'd noticed it from the start—Falco was the kind of child who apologized even for breathing too loud. A kind heart weighed down by too many expectations.

She exhaled gently through her nose, watching him with quiet care. She didn't know what it was like to be a Warrior candidate, not really. But she could see enough to understand—whatever it was, it looked heavy on him.

"Of course you can!" she said brightly, her smile warm as she leaned forward just slightly, trying to ease the nerves radiating off him. "Now, tell me—who's this for? A girl...?" Her voice was teasing, playful, the corners of her lips tugging upward.

The moment the question left her mouth, she saw something flicker in Falco's eyes. Not embarrassment—something softer, deeper. For just a second, his face lit up, like he'd thought of someone. But it vanished quickly, his expression tightening with unease.

He raised his hands in defense, clutching the letter tighter. "No, no—it's not like that! It's for Mr. Kruger." He looked away, clearly flustered, but the damage was done. The mind goes where it wants. And his had gone to her, yet he knew she was not one for flowers.

[Y/N] chuckled gently, not pressing further. Children had a way of betraying themselves in the most honest ways. She loved them for it—the way they still allowed themselves to dream, even here. Even in Liberio.

Her eyes softened at the name. "Mr. Kruuuger..." she echoed slowly, dragging it out in thought as she turned to look at the flowers around her.

She had tried before—small gestures, little bunches of blooms offered at the hospital. But he always looked at them like they were foreign, like the petals belonged to another world entirely. He'd never accepted them. She remembered the look on his face when she offered them—unreadable, but clear enough to know he didn't believe in beauty anymore. Not in the way most people did.

Still.

She reached for a pair of garden shears and got to work.

From the tall vase on her shelf, she plucked a sprig of blue statice—a flower that symbolized remembrance, quiet strength, and unspoken emotion. It would go at the center.

Around it, she layered in white bellflowers—gentle, modest things that nodded with the breeze. Olive branches came next, thin and silver-green, a nod to peace that might never come but was still worth hoping for. She hesitated, then tucked in one deep red plumeria, its creamy petals and tropical scent subtle but warm. One touch of softness in an otherwise somber palette.

When it was done, she tied it loosely with twine. No bright ribbons. No frills. Just simple, clean, and thoughtful.

She held the bouquet out to Falco. "For Mr. Kruger," she said with a knowing smile. "Tell him I made this one, especially for someone who pretends not to need flowers."

Falco finally seemed comfortable. He let out a soft, honest laugh and reached for the bouquet, cradling it carefully in his arms.

"Now tell me," she said, leaning casually on her stand, her gaze playful as it flicked toward his hands, where the folded letter now sat tucked beside the flowers. "I know the bouquet is for Mr. Kruger... but the letter—what's that? A love letter, perhaps?"

Falco flushed lightly but smiled. "It's Mr. Kruger's. A letter for his family. He asked me to send it." His voice was soft, but there was a small light in his expression—a quiet sort of pride. Just doing something for Mr. Kruger seemed to lift something off his shoulders.

"Aren't you sweet," she murmured, her voice laced with fondness. "Here—for being such a brave Warrior Candidate, and a good helper."

She bent beneath the counter of her stand, sifting through a crate of smaller blooms, and emerged with a single sweet pea—soft pink, fragrant, and delicate. A flower of gratitude and gentle courage.

She carefully tucked it into the pocket of his shirt.

"There," she said, her smile lingering. "Now go on, courier boy."

Falco beamed, holding the bouquet a little tighter, the letter pressed close to his heart.

--

The walk back to the hospital garden stretched longer than Falco expected.

The sun had dipped low, casting long, weary shadows across the cracked pavement. His legs ached, his feet dragged beneath him, but still, he held the bouquet carefully—its soft fragrance, the familiar sweetness of plumeria, clinging gently to the air like encouragement.

He found Mr. Kruger seated in his usual spot, half-swallowed by shade, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the last sliver of light clung stubbornly to the sky.

"Mr. Kruger!" Falco called out, a smile breaking across his face as he hurried forward. "I did it—I delivered the letter! And I brought you these! I thought... maybe they'd help you feel better. So you can see your family sooner."

Kruger looked down at what the boy was holding.

A bouquet.

Just as he'd finally rid himself of the cornflower, another gesture had found its way to him—soft and persistent, like her presence always seemed to be.

"I stopped by Miss Florist before delivering the letter," Falco added brightly. "She said to tell you... she made this one especially for you. Said you 'pretend not to need flowers.'"

A quiet huff of breath left Kruger—something caught between a sigh and the start of a laugh. The corners of his mouth tugged upward, barely, but undeniably there. He reached out and took the bouquet from Falco's hands, his fingers lingering on the stems longer than necessary.

His eyes, hidden beneath the curtain of his hair, glimmered faintly—less guarded now, as if a small part of him had begun to believe in something gentler.

"That... was kind of you, Falco."

Kruger's voice was quiet, held back by the weight of something unspoken. Kindness always unsettled him—especially from a child. Especially when it reached further than it should.

Falco smiled, proud of himself in that small, quiet way, like he'd done something that mattered.

"Now go on. Get home—it's getting late."

Eren watched him disappear into the dark grimy streets. Alone again, he rose slowly, crutch in one hand, bouquet in the other.

He didn't throw it away.

In the stillness of his room, he set the flowers down on the table where the cornflower used to sit. The scent of plumeria lingered—sweet, too sweet, like it didn't belong here. He sat down across from it, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on the petals.

Why did she keep doing this?

He hadn't shown her warmth. Barely even looked her in the eye most days. She brought him a cornflower once—he'd let the water cup sit untouched until the stem sagged under its own weight. She had to know he didn't want any of it.

And still, she kept offering.

Not out of ignorance. She wasn't naïve.

There was something else behind it—something steady. A softness that didn't ask for anything in return. It made no sense to him, but he didn't look away.

He stared at the bouquet in front of him, the deep red plumerias' sweet scent filling the air. He hadn't asked for it, hadn't even wanted it. But still, here it was—a simple gift from someone who didn't owe him anything. He had barely acknowledged her the last time they'd met, had distanced himself as much as possible.

And yet, she hadn't recoiled. She hadn't gotten angry or upset at his coldness. She had simply... smiled.

He ran his hand through his hair, frustration rising within him. Why did she keep being kind? It wasn't like he deserved it. He had made it clear that he wasn't the person to be nice to, wasn't someone who could offer anything in return.

So why did she persist?

The thought gnawed at him. Her warmth, her willingness to give without expecting anything—was it genuine? Or was it just some naive way of trying to fix something broken?

He couldn't decide which idea bothered him more. The thought of her seeing through the walls he had so carefully built... or the possibility that she wasn't expecting anything from him at all.

Eren clenched his fist around the crutch, biting back the anger that welled up. This shouldn't matter. It wasn't his problem.

But it did.

And that was what made it so unbearable—because in a world drained of meaning and light, her kindness bloomed like the last vivid color in a painting he'd long stopped believing in.

As the moon had begun to rise, and the sun's light slowly retreated—quiet, reluctant—slipping beneath the horizon as if it, too, no longer wished to bear witness.

"This will be done. For the good of humanity."

The words sounded like they belonged to someone else. He stared stoically at the moon through his window, its pale reflection warping beside the flowers on the sill. They taunted him—soft, persistent things that didn't belong in a place like this.

He reached for them. He wanted to throw them out. To reject them. To make a point. But a point to whom? What would it prove, and who was watching?

He didn't know. But still, he hesitated. And in the end, he left them untouched.

Then he saw her.

Moving along the darkened street below. Her hands—unusually empty. No bundles of flowers, no ribbon trailing behind her, no delicate colors pressed to her chest. Just her, cloaked in shadow and moonlight, walking like someone with a place to be but no one waiting for her.

She had one final errand to run.

Her brother had come back from the war with the other soldiers. Hollow-eyed, spine-straight, one of the ones who still looked intact if you didn't stare too long.

But even then, they'd never really been on good terms. She was the reason he wasn't chosen as a warrior—a wound neither of them ever bothered to dress. And though he never said it aloud, he reminded her of it in other ways. In the sharp angles of his silence. In the way his gaze never softened for her like it had for the rest of the family. In the heaviness of his presence, the chill in his step, and the quiet disappointment he wore like armor.

He didn't yell. He didn't fight.

He just looked at her like she was the reason he'd failed—and like the world had agreed with him.

Still she walked. Steady. Unflinching. Not weighed down by guilt, not exactly. But by the kind of sorrow that chooses not to fight back. The kind that endures.

And up above, with a bouquet still in his hands and a war still in his chest, Mr. Kruger watched her disappear into the night.

And the flowers remained.

Unthrown.

As [Y/N] continued her walk, the silence of the night pressing in around her like a second skin. The streets were nearly empty, the air cool with the hush of dusk. Her thoughts drifted—slow, heavy things—threading sorrow for her brother with the quiet acceptance of what they'd become. Not strangers, not enemies, but something in between. She stopped in front of his door, a hulking shape lost in shadow.

For Yuriel, it had never been about survival.

Becoming a Warrior, or even just a candidate, had nothing to do with honor. Not for him. At twelve years old, his entire existence had already been shaped by hatred—cold, calculated, and merciless. He had been called names she wasn't allowed to repeat, had been shoved off sidewalks, spat at, blamed. And he swallowed it all. Not with weakness, but with purpose. With resolve. With rage.

She remembered the day of the selection test. The air that morning had tasted like iron. Yuriel's hands had trembled—not from fear, but from hope. And [Y/N] had felt something terrible growing in her chest, something heavier than guilt. A conviction. One she hadn't yet named.

She hadn't meant to ruin it. Not exactly.

But when the time came, when his success balanced on a single moment, a single result, she made sure the scale tipped the other way. One misplaced signature. One hesitation during his evaluation. One quiet act of sabotage—enough to stop everything.

He never said a word about it.

But his silence was punishment enough.

She was pulled from the memory by a voice—sharper now, colder.

"Well? Aren't you going to come inside?"

She looked up.

There he was. Yuriel.

His face was older now, sharper. But it wasn't the years that had carved those lines into him—it was bitterness. The kind that settled deep and stayed. His eyes met hers, hollow and unreadable, and for a fleeting second, all she could see was Mr. Kruger.

That same distance.

That same ache.

That same silent war.

"Oh... I'm sorry." Her voice barely rose above a whisper.

He was the only person who ever dimmed her light, but it wasn't intentional. No, it was her guilt, the quiet weight of it, that folded in on itself, making her feel smaller with every step she took toward him.

She stepped into his home, and the silence immediately settled around her. It was as she had imagined—cold, barren, as though life had never really taken root here. No warmth in the walls, no trace of the laughter that had once filled this space.

"I... I'm only here to pick up Mama's picture," she murmured, her words hanging heavily in the air.

Three years had passed since that night—since their mother had been torn away from them by the hands of a Marleyan officer. And in those years, Yuriel had turned his grief into something else entirely. It wasn't just loss anymore; it was the kind of seething anger that carved out pieces of him, left him hollow.

For Yuriel, that loss wasn't just an unfortunate event—it was the evidence of what could've been. The cruel reminder that their lives might have been different had he followed the path laid out before him. Had he become a warrior, had he taken on the title of Jaw Titan, maybe their family could've lived without the constant fear of Marley's hand hanging over them.

But she had stopped him. He hadn't become a warrior. And in his mind, that was the reason everything had unraveled. The reason their mother was gone. The reason they were left in a world that had turned its back on them.

They could've been honorary Marleyans. They could've had power, protection. And maybe their mother would still be alive. 

He should've been the Jaw.

The weight of it pressed on her chest as she stood there in the dim light.

"Just take what you need." He turned away, his back to her as though the simple act of facing her was too much. "Don't visit next month. They're planning some event. I'll be patrolling the area, I wont be home." The words hung in the air, awkward and unfamiliar. 

It was strange to hear them come from his mouth. He hadn't spoken to her like this in years, yet here he was, saying things he didn't fully understand himself.

But there was a flicker of something in his voice—something that whispered of an unspoken hope. Maybe if he told her not to come next month, she would come the month after. 

It wasn't a request, but it wasn't an order either. It was something fragile, something like an invitation that he didn't know how to give.

As the silence stretched between them, he thought about the space between them. The years of distance, the years of words left unsaid, and the weight of all that had been broken. 

Not all wounds heal. But that doesn't mean you stop walking forward. The pain may never fade, but you carry it with you, piece by piece, step by step. And maybe, just maybe, you'll find a way to forgive the past, to forgive each other, to forgive yourself.

Because it was never just her fault.

"Oh, I... I see. Very well then. Good night, Yuri." Her voice was a soft whisper, the words slipping into the air like a breath she hadn't meant to take. She turned away, offering him her final words as she left.

Liberio was never warm, especially not at night. The streets were always heavy with silence, thick with shadows that clung to the corners of the city. The stone buildings stood like forgotten memories, their edges softened in the dark. The air had the weight of things left unsaid, heavy and damp, like a secret too old to remember.

Her footsteps were the only sound, soft but distinct against the quiet, almost as if she were walking through someone else's life. The streets—once familiar—felt different in the dark. The lamps, few and far between, cast weak pools of light that only deepened the shadows, making everything seem just a little more out of reach, just a little more foreign.

Passing by the hospital, the only building she ever knew so well, she noticed something. There was light—just one room, tucked somewhere within the building, where no light should have been at this hour.

It wasn't much, a faint sliver of yellow seeping from the edges of the window. It seemed almost out of place, but it caught her attention, drawing her gaze in. She could make out a figure inside, just barely, and in that soft, dim light, the red plumerias caught her eye—almost glowing, bright against the shadows.

For a brief moment, she paused. Her feet felt like they were frozen to the ground, as if the room held something that had been waiting for her all this time. Something she hadn't known she was looking for. But as quickly as the thought came, she let it slip away, moving forward once again, though now with a quiet tug in her chest—a pull she couldn't ignore.

By the time she passed the hospital, the faint glow of her home flickered to life in the distance—a small, golden ember against the quiet black of night. Her pace slowed, the hush of evening wrapping around her like a heavy coat.

When she reached the familiar stretch of street before her flower stand, she paused. A figure stood there, tall, blonde, and unmoving, half-draped in shadow beneath the streetlamp's weary glow.

A soft sigh slipped past her lips, already heavy with knowing. “Mr. Braun, please don’t make it a habit of coming by after I’m closed—”

But her voice caught. Froze.

The man turned—and it wasn’t Reiner.

It was Zeke Yeager.

His frame carved a sharp silhouette in the dim light, golden hair dulled beneath the pallor of the lamp. She didn’t need light to recognize him. She had always known the outline of fear.

The Beast Titan.

A chill bloomed in her chest, deep and immediate. The street suddenly felt narrower. The silence, too thick. Even the distant sounds of soldiers, of wind rattling loose shutters, seemed to vanish—as if the world itself held its breath.

She had only ever seen him from afar, a name spoken low, a shadow at the edge of the war. But now, standing so close—he made the familiar streets of Liberio feel like a cage.

And in that moment, beneath the bruised sky and the broken hum of the streetlight, she understood.

The night had changed. And nothing would bloom here without consequence again.

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His steps were heavy, his mind even heavier.

Falco found himself trapped: if saving the girl he loved meant betraying her, could it truly be called love?

But in this place, there were no choices, only orders. From the moment they could walk, children like him were fed the same seeds—seeds of hope and hate.

Hope to become a warrior.

Hope to become an honorary Marleyan.

And hate—the devils of Paradis. They forgot what freedom felt like somewhere in between.

But by following this path, maybe someday, in the next 13 years, he would taste it—or be left with the bitter ghost of what could have been.

It eluded all of them then, but that was no matter—tomorrow, they would run faster, stretch their hands further. And one day—

One fine morning—

Would they reach it?

Or would they, like the generations before them, beat on against the current—only to be dragged back by the tide of history?

Falco clenched his fists. No matter how hard they tried, how much they clawed for something greater, the past held them in its iron grip. They were born into it, trained into it, told that their suffering had purpose. But that purpose was never theirs to decide.

Even now, as he walked past the hospital, the weight of it pressed down on him. A place meant for healing, yet filled with ghosts of the past. The wounded shuffled through the halls like specters, the light gone from their eyes. Some tried to fight it—pacing, wringing their hands, banging their heads against the walls as if the impact might shake free the memories that haunted them. Others sat in stillness, lost in battles that never truly ended.

Even as a child, Falco understood that not all wounds bled. Some festered beneath the skin, invisible yet inescapable.

And yet, in this place of silent suffering, something moved.

Something bright. Something living.

A woman.

She was unlike anything in this world. A flicker of warmth against the cold. A flower in a wasteland.

Her presence was strange, almost out of place. While the hospital reeked of sickness and despair, she walked with light steps, as if she carried no burdens. A basket of flowers hung from her arm, their colors a defiance against the dullness of the walls. And as she bent down, guiding a patient's trembling hands over the soil, Falco realized—

She was planting something here.

Not just flowers.

Hope.

It was the smallest of things, fragile, barely noticeable. A seed buried beneath years of pain, barely pushing through the dirt.

Yet even the smallest seed, if given time, could grow into something unbreakable.

And someday, Falco wanted to see it bloom.

Bloom beyond these walls. Beyond the war. Beyond what they were told to dream.

Bloom into something more

"Hey, over here."

A voice cut through Falco's thoughts. He turned to see a man sitting on the opposite side of the garden, half-hidden in the shade. Bandages covered one eye, while unkempt strands of dark hair obscured the other. He lifted a hand in a lazy wave, the other resting on his crutch.

It was Mr. Kruger.

Falco hesitated before making his way over. He knew this man—one of the veterans he had helped after returning from his mission with the other Warriors. They said Kruger had been sent here, another broken soldier unable to readjust after war. But as Falco sat beside him, he noticed the way Kruger's gaze lingered—not on the patients, not on the dirt beneath their hands, but on the lone figure among them.

She stood in the garden, sleeves rolled up as she carefully tended to the plants. A florist, smiling so warmly it was as if she lived in a different world, untouched by the suffering around her.

Falco had seen her before, coming here every day with her basket of flowers, offering something as fragile as hope to people who had long since lost it.

And Kruger—he was watching her. Not in the way the other veterans did, with fleeting appreciation or empty longing, but as if the sight of her made him think of something he couldn't quite name.

"Are you getting better, Mr. Kruger?" Falco asked.

A long pause. Then—

"Can I be honest?" Kruger's voice was even, unreadable. "I'm not here because of the war. I just don't want to face my family yet."

Falco blinked. He couldn't see Kruger's expression beneath the shadow of his hair, but something about his tone made his own face soften. He knew that feeling.

"...Are you going to report me?" Kruger added. His words held a teasing lilt, but there was something else underneath—something Falco couldn't quite place.

"No, of course not, Mr. Kruger." Falco shook his head. He understood better than most what war did to people, what it did to families.

Kruger hummed, glancing over at him. "You're all beat up. I take it that's from your Warrior training?"

A heavy sigh slipped from Falco's lips. "Yeah... but honestly? It's pointless." His fingers curled into his knees. "There's this other candidate who's way better than me. There's no way I'll be chosen."

For a moment, Kruger didn't respond. He only shifted his gaze back to the garden, back to her.

"...Good," he finally said.

Falco frowned.

"I'm glad to hear it," Kruger continued, his eyes still on the florist as she knelt down, hands brushing delicately over the soil. "You're a good kid. I hope you get to live a long life."

Falco followed his gaze but said nothing. His chest felt tight.

Because what did it mean to live a long life when every path in front of you had already been decided?

"The thing is... I don't want this other candidate to get it either," he admitted quietly.

Kruger didn't react at first, merely tilting his head slightly, as if studying him. Then, his lips twitched in something that wasn't quite a smirk. "This rival of yours... is she a girl, by chance?"

Falco dropped his head lower, almost in shame. "She's famous around here. She did incredible things in the war. Ask anyone, and they'll say she deserves to be the next Armored Titan."

His voice was quiet, but laced with something raw. Resentment? Frustration? Desperation? Maybe all three.

Kruger exhaled, his expression unreadable. "And?"

Falco's fingers dug into his knees.

"...But it doesn't matter." His voice was strained, like something inside him was breaking. "Because I can't do a damn thing about it."

Kruger said nothing at first. He only glanced once more at the florist, the sunlight catching in her hair, in the soft curve of her lips as she spoke to one of the patients.

Then, almost absently, he murmured, "Sometimes, the people who deserve it the least are the ones forced to take it."

Falco looked at him, but Kruger didn't elaborate.

He only turned his gaze back to the garden, as if trying to convince himself of something he already knew.

After a long stretch of silence, Kruger shifted on his crutch, his gaze drifting from the garden to the horizon. Falco sat, fidgeting with his hands, uncertain what to say, his own frustrations rising like a storm in his chest. But it was Kruger who finally broke the stillness.

"Every day I've spent here, I've wondered..." He spoke quietly, voice thick with a weight that only years of war could bring. Falco looked over, meeting Kruger's tired eyes, his words hanging in the air like an invisible thread pulling him in.

"How did all these people let it come to this?" Eren's words were calm, but there was an undercurrent of something darker, something he couldn't quite hide. "No one's dream, no one's personality, is meant to burn like this. No one would want to go to war if they knew what it would do to them."

Falco swallowed hard, something tightening in his throat. He wanted to speak, to ask him more, but Kruger wasn't done. He continued, the words flowing almost too naturally, as if he had thought them over many times in the quiet of his own mind.

"But it's not like we all leapt into hell knowingly," Kruger said, eyes distant. "Most of us were pushed. Some by other people, and some by the environment we grew up in." He paused, as if trying to gather the weight of the world in his hands, his crutch tapping faintly against the ground.

"The few who choose to leap into hell, though... they see it differently than the rest of us. They see something beyond this hell. Maybe that something is hope... or maybe it's just another hell. The fact is, you can only find out by moving forward."

Falco felt a heavy stillness in the air as those words settled around them. The simple truth of them seemed to wrap around him, like the tension in the world's breath before it finally snapped.

He glanced up at Kruger, whose face had softened slightly. Falco wasn't sure if the words were meant for him, for Kruger himself, or for someone else entirely. But they resonated deeply, as though the meaning of his own battle was shifting in his mind.

"What do you mean by that?" Falco asked cautiously. The question felt so insignificant after everything Kruger had just shared, but it was the only thing he could think to say.

Kruger didn't immediately answer. Instead, he looked down at the ground again, staring at the cracked soil between his feet. Then he met Falco's eyes again, his expression unreadable.

"I mean, we all get caught up in thinking that we have to do what's expected of us," he said, his voice softer now. "That the path is laid out, and we have to walk it without question. But sometimes, the hardest thing is to move forward when there's nothing left but the fear of what's ahead. You just have to keep going, Falco. You can't let it consume you."

Falco sat there for a long moment, his mind swirling with those words. For the first time, he felt like someone understood—like maybe, just maybe, there was something he could do that wasn't set in stone, something that lay beyond the war and its weight.

As Kruger spoke, Falco couldn't help but glance over at the florist again. She was still there, in the garden, her hands gently coaxing the flowers to grow, smiling at the patients she helped, her lightness a stark contrast to the shadows hanging over them all. There was something about her, something that felt like the smallest flicker of hope in this grim world.

And Kruger... as his words lingered in the air, Falco saw it. He wasn't just speaking about moving forward. He was speaking about what kept them going. Hope, maybe. Or maybe it was something more, something they couldn't name yet. Falco didn't know. But he knew that when Kruger spoke of hope, he saw the florist in his mind.

She was that sliver of light, the soft breath of warmth in an otherwise frozen world.

Kruger seemed to sense this as well, for a brief moment, his gaze flickering toward her. But when he spoke again, it was with a quiet, almost nostalgic edge.

"Sometimes, the people who deserve it the least are the ones forced to take it."

Falco looked at him, but Kruger didn't elaborate.

It had seemed like forever, that falco sat there.

Untill it seemed the gaze that Mr kruger had on [y/n] had been strong enough to get her to turn, 

"Well, good morning, Mr. Kruger," she greeted cheerfully, her voice light but carrying a certain ease, as if she had known him for years.

 She leaned forward slightly, her stance eager and animated. "And who is this charming young man?" she asked, her gaze shifting toward Falco. 

Her smile softened, but it was warm, inviting. She had that effortless way of making anyone feel seen. "I'm [Y/N], just a florist who comes to visit," she added, her tone gentle but filled with the kind of sincerity that could make anyone feel like they were the only person in the room.

Falco, caught off guard by her direct attention and the genuine warmth of her smile, felt a flush creep up his neck. He straightened slightly, his hands fidgeting in his lap.

He mumbled a polite, slightly breathless greeting. "G-good morning, m-miss... [Y/N]. It's... nice to meet you." He kept his gaze mostly on his knees, offering a quick, shy glance up at her before looking away again. A small, almost embarrassed smile flickered across his lips.

He was trying to be polite, trying to remember the manners his guardians had instilled in him. But the unexpected compliment and her easygoing presence had him flustered in a way that felt both awkward and... pleasant.

Beside him, Kruger remained silent, his gaze fixed on [Y/N].

His expression was unreadable, his usual guardedness firmly in place. But if one looked closely, there was a subtle shift in the depths of his intense green eyes.

A flicker. Like a pilot light catching a fresh gust of air. A faint, almost imperceptible softening—a spark of something akin to... ignition.

It was quickly masked, his features returning to their stoic state, but the brief intensity in his gaze betrayed a deeper reaction to her presence. A silent acknowledgment of the warmth she radiated in this otherwise desolate place.

"Good day, Ms. Florist." Kruger spoke with a slight tilt of his head. His tone felt strange, yet for some reason, he felt a little warmer by her presence—like the sun coming to help grow the flowers. 

But the use of her title, instead of her name, gave him a sense of power over the mask he still wore.

[Y/N]'s smile widened, her attention now shifting between the two men. "Please, Mr. Kruger, after all this time, you can call me [Y/N]." 

Her tone was gentle but held a playful insistence. Then, she turned her warm gaze back to Falco. "And you, young man? You seem a little shy." Her voice was soft, encouraging. "Is this your first time in the Hospital?"

Falco, feeling the weight of her kind eyes on him, shifted uncomfortably. "Y-yes, ma'am... Miss [Y/N]." 

He still couldn't quite bring himself to meet her gaze directly, but he felt a little less flustered by her gentle approach. "Mr. Kruger... he was just... talking."

[Y/N]'s eyebrows rose slightly, a hint of curiosity in her expression as she glanced at Kruger. "Oh? And what were you two discussing?" She didn't press, her tone remaining light and conversational, but there was a clear invitation for either of them to share.

Kruger remained silent for a moment, his gaze flickering towards the horizon before returning to [Y/N]. There was a subtle shift in his posture, a slight relaxing of the tension in his shoulders, as if her easy presence had a calming effect despite himself. "Just... the usual," he finally said, his voice still somewhat distant but lacking the sharp edge from before. "The way the world works."

[Y/N]'s smile didn't falter. "Ah, yes," she said thoughtfully. 

"A complicated business, that. But sometimes," she added, her gaze sweeping over the small garden they stood beside, "the simplest things can tell you the most important truths, don't you think?" She gestured to a vibrant red poppy that had just begun to unfurl its petals. "Like this little one. So fragile, yet so determined to bloom."

She then turned back to Falco, her eyes twinkling. "Do you have a favorite flower, young man?" she asked, her attention fully on him once more, making him feel like he was the most important person in that moment.

But before Falco could answer, Sister Martha called [Y/N]'s name.

"[Y/N], dear, come over here really quickly!"

With a smile, [Y/N] bowed in farewell to both men and walked toward Sister Martha. Her energy seemed to shimmer in the air around her, an odd contrast to the grim surroundings. Even the smallest things about her didn't quite fit in this place, like a flower blooming in a field of ashes.

Kruger only watched as she moved away, his gaze lingering on her until she was out of sight.

Once she was far enough away, Kruger turned to Falco.

"Falco, do you think you could do me a favor?" His voice was careful, watchful as he spoke, though his posture was hesitant, unsure if he truly wanted to ask for this.

"Of course, Mr. Kruger," Falco responded, eager to help, feeling a sense of warmth from being trusted with the request.

Kruger hesitated for a moment longer, his eyes still on [Y/N] as if seeing something he couldn't fully grasp.

"Could you send this letter outside the internment zone? If they read it, they'll surely know I don't need to be here anymore." His voice dropped to a softer, almost imperceptible tone, the sadness within it so subtle that, had Falco not been feeling a weight on his chest, he might've missed it altogether.

Falco paused, sensing the depth of emotion beneath Kruger's words, but he simply nodded, not asking any further questions.

"Of course, I'll make sure it gets sent."

Kruger gave a small nod, though his gaze remained distant, still fixed somewhere in the direction of [Y/N]. Falco watched him for a moment, a sense of responsibility settling in his chest.

The afternoon began to wane, casting long shadows across the hospital grounds. [Y/N], after her conversation with Sister Martha, gathered her remaining flowers and her empty basket, bidding farewell to the patients who were still in the garden. The warmth of her smile lingered even as she made her way towards the hospital exit, the image of Mr. Kruger's thoughtful gaze still in her mind.

As she approached her small house, nestled among the other modest dwellings outside the internment zone, she noticed a figure waiting near her doorstep. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his posture carrying a familiar air of weary strength.

It was Reiner Braun.

He looked slightly surprised to see her. "Oh, uh, hello," he said, a hint of awkwardness in his voice. "I was hoping to buy some flowers. For my aunt's house. They're... celebrating." He trailed off, a shadow momentarily crossing his face. "For the victory."

[Y/N] smiled gently, noticing the time. Her small flower stand outside her house was already closed for the day, the few remaining blooms tucked safely inside. "Hello, Mr Braun. I'm afraid my stand is closed for today."

Reiner's shoulders slumped slightly. "Oh, right. Sorry, I didn't realize." He seemed about to turn away, a look of disappointment on his face.

[Y/N] paused, then a thoughtful expression crossed her features. "But... for you, Mr Braun," she said softly, "I can make a small bouquet. As a thank you."

Reiner looked surprised. "A thank you? For what?"

[Y/N]'s smile held a hint of sadness. "For your service. For everything you do." She knew, like everyone else, that Reiner was the Armored Titan, a hero in Marley, fighting against the "devils" of Paradis.

"No, no, please," Reiner insisted, reaching for his pocket. "I should pay you. How much do I owe you?"

[Y/N] chuckled lightly. "Oh, Reiner, I never accept money after my stand is closed. It's bad for business, you know." Her tone was playful, but her eyes held a deeper sincerity. "Just let me put something together for you."

As [Y/N] busied herself inside, selecting a mix of vibrant blooms, her thoughts drifted. Reiner, a Marleyan hero, fighting with all his strength... against people who were, in the end, just like him. Eldians fighting Eldians, fueled by generations of hatred and misinformation. The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth. The "devils" on the island, the people Reiner fought against, had done nothing to her. They were just trying to survive, just like everyone else. The whole thing felt like a terrible, senseless tragedy.

When she emerged with a colorful bouquet, she handed it to Reiner. "Here you go. For your aunt."

Reiner looked at the flowers, a genuine smile finally breaking through his weariness. "Thank you, Miss. They're beautiful." He hesitated, then offered a small, almost shy smile. "Really, thank you."

As Reiner walked away, clutching the bouquet, [Y/N] watched him go, her heart heavy with the unfairness of it all. 

The celebration at his aunt's house... a victory built on the suffering of others who were no more deserving of it.

| prev chapter

The Liberio Hospital carried a scent that could never be scrubbed away—sterile, faintly metallic, laced with something heavier. A quiet melancholy clung to the air, the kind that settled in places where suffering was routine. Eren recognized it. He'd smelled it in Paradis, even in the moments of so-called peace, lurking beneath the illusion of safety.

Yet here, woven into the antiseptic cold, was something different. Something delicate. A hint of spice, subtly sweet—a ghost of something softer, something from beyond these walls. A whisper of warmth.

A blue cornflower.

The same flower that had been haunting his mind.

It had been a meaningless action. He hadn't thought much of it—just a simple way to avoid unnecessary attention. Place the flower in a cup, let the florist believe he'd acknowledged her gesture, and move on. That was all.

And yet, the water is still. The petals, slightly open—alive. A fragile thing, persisting despite everything. A contrast to the world he's preparing to burn.

His fingers graze the rim of the cup before pulling away.

In the midst of Liberio's suffering, the florist stands out—like a candle flickering stubbornly in the dark, refusing to be snuffed out. He had seen it yesterday, the way she knelt beside the woman in the alley, the way she looked at suffering—not with indifference, not even with resigned acceptance, but with something closer to defiance.

He doesn't understand it.

More than that, he doesn't want to.

Compassion, kindness, hope—he'd seen what became of people who clung to such things. He'd watched them be trampled, broken, left behind by a world that had no patience for sentimentality.

Hannes.

The name carves itself into his thoughts before he can stop it.

The man who had once promised to protect them, to make things right. The same man who had stood frozen all those years ago, too afraid to act. Eren remembers the way his hands had clenched into fists, the rage in his voice as he screamed at Hannes to fight—to save his mother, to do something—only to watch in horror as the man hesitated, then turned away.

And years later, when Hannes finally did fight, when he charged at that Titan with everything he had—he still lost.

He remembers the way Mikasa had clutched his arm, her voice breaking as she told him not to look. The way the Titan's jaws had clamped shut. The sickening sound of it. The sheer finality of it.

Hannes had tried to be a good man. And in the end, it hadn't mattered.

Good people didn't survive.

Yet here she was, moving through the same cruel reality, refusing to yield to it. She was not blind to the suffering around her—no, she saw it, acknowledged it, and still chose to reach out.

Was it naivety? Foolishness? Or something else entirely?

Eren exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair as if to rid himself of the thought.

It doesn't matter. It can't matter.

Not when he knows what's coming.

For a moment, the world outside the hospital room felt a little smaller, a little more manageable. And maybe—just for a fleeting second—Eren Yeager let himself believe that there was still something worth holding on to.

But the quiet stillness of his room soon became a cage. A familiar restlessness gnawed at him, coiling tight in his chest, pushing him to his feet. He drifted through the sterile halls like a ghost, moving without aim, without purpose—only the simmering churn of his thoughts driving him forward, a restless tide against the sterile calm.

He told himself he was simply observing, taking in the layout, the movements of the people around him. Gathering information. That's all it was. But too often, his gaze lingered on nothing at all, a reflection of the emptiness he felt despite the turmoil within.

It was in the sunlit courtyard that he saw her again.

The florist.

She sat beside the woman from yesterday—Ilsa. But today, there was no bouquet offered, no careful presentation of colors meant to soothe or heal. Instead, [Y/N]'s hands moved with quiet patience, guiding Ilsa's trembling fingers as they arranged a small cluster of blooms together.

Even from a distance, Eren could see the unwavering focus in her expression, the gentle determination in the way she leaned closer, ensuring Ilsa followed the movements. There was an intimacy in the simplicity of it. No grand gestures, no empty reassurances. Just presence. Just care. He watched as [Y/N] carefully positioned a delicate sprig of baby's breath in Ilsa's hand.

"That's lovely, Ilsa," [Y/N] murmured, offering her a small smile. "You're getting the hang of it."

A faint, breathless laugh escaped Ilsa's lips—uncertain at first, as if she barely recognized the sound as her own. Encouraged, [Y/N] let out a soft chuckle, her voice light, steady.

"At this rate," she teased, nudging a wayward petal into place, "you'll be taking my job soon."

This time, when Ilsa laughed, it was fuller. Real. And [Y/N] joined in, as if for a moment, the weight of the world had eased just a little.

Eren stood at a distance, watching the quiet exchange, the easy laughter, the gentle connection blooming between them like the flowers in their hands. A knot tightened in his chest, a familiar discomfort settling in his gut. 

He observed the way [Y/N]'s brow furrowed in concentration as she guided Ilsa, the genuine warmth in her smile, the effortless way she brought a moment of lightness to this broken place.

And he did not understand the persistent stirring within him as he continued to watch.

Eren watched them, but the sight of something so tender, so unnecessary in the grand scheme of things, grated at him. People like her didn't last in this world. Not when it was already crumbling.

He wanted to scoff, to dismiss it as foolishness—but he didn't move. His gaze stayed fixed. And that unsettled him.

As if by some subtle turn of fate, [Y/N] happened to look up.

"Oh, Mr. Kruger." She seemed a little surprised. It had been a week since the hospital had admitted him, yet in all her visits, he had remained within the confines of his room. A creature of shadows, preferring the muted gray of his own thoughts to the unwelcome brightness of the world outside.

"It's a lovely day outside, isn't it?" she asked quickly, masking her surprise with a smile. Her eyes brightened, the soft warmth in her gaze almost a tangible thing, as if she truly believed that a small moment of connection could make the world a little less harsh. It was a warmth that seemed to extend to everyone, an indiscriminate offering that somehow felt both genuine and... naive.

He didn't respond, his gaze unwavering. But his fingers twitched, almost unconsciously, a subtle betrayer of the rigid control he tried to maintain. He felt the phantom weight of the blue cornflower's stem against his palm, a ghost of a sensation that lingered despite his attempts to banish it.

The cornflower. It still sat in his room, resting in a cup of water. He should've thrown it away. A pointless gesture, a fleeting bloom in a world choked with weeds of despair. But he hadn't. And for the first time, that bothered him. It was a loose thread in the carefully woven tapestry of his detachment, a small inconsistency that threatened to unravel the whole.

For a fleeting second, the mask of Mr. Kruger cracked. The soft warmth of the moment dug into him, a sharp, unexpected pang that resonated somewhere deep within. For just an instant, he wanted to say something—anything—to acknowledge her presence, to bridge the chasm of silence that stretched between them. But no. That wasn't him. That vulnerable flicker was a ghost of a life he'd long since buried.

This feeling—it was too much. Too much for someone like him, someone burdened by the weight of a future no one else could see.

So he turned and walked away, jaw clenched, his steps sharp and deliberate against the soft murmur of the courtyard. Because if he didn't, if he lingered even a moment longer in the orbit of her unassuming light, he'd start questioning everything. The certainty that had been his anchor would begin to fray, and he couldn't afford that. Not now. Not ever.

"There is no future for people like her." The thought echoed in the sterile corridors of his mind, a mantra he clung to like a lifeline.

But why did it feel like he was lying to himself? The words tasted like ash on his tongue, devoid of the conviction they once held.

The voice that was Mr. Kruger, the carefully constructed shell he wore, wanted to believe the world was doomed. That people like her, with their gentle smiles and fragile hopes, had no place in it. But deep down, beneath the cold veneer, the soldier who was Eren Jeager knew—or perhaps simply remembered—that there had once been a world where such kindness wasn't a weakness. Maybe there was still something more.

Maybe he was lying to himself about the end of it all. Maybe, in this broken world, there was still a sliver of something worth holding onto, something he had almost forgotten existed until a blue cornflower appeared on his door.

Eren walked away, his back a rigid line, and [Y/N] watched him go, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow. That wasn't the reaction of someone who simply wanted to be left alone. A seed of unease had been planted.

Meanwhile, Eren strode through the sterile corridors, his jaw still clenched, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. He could still feel the ghost of her warm gaze on him, the echo of her gentle voice. 

Stop it, he told himself fiercely. It means nothing. But the denial felt hollow. He reached his room and slammed the door shut.

His hurried departure hadn't gone unnoticed by everyone. A nurse, Sister Martha, paused near the entrance of the courtyard, her gaze following his retreating figure. 

Something's bothering that one, she mused, before glancing back at [Y/N], whose gentle laughter still drifted across the courtyard, a silent contrast to the young man's obvious turmoil.

For Eren, that "something" manifested as a restless energy that clung to him throughout the day. The familiar routines of his self-imposed isolation felt suffocating. 

The image of [Y/N]'s smile kept intruding. He found himself drawn to the window, half-expecting, half-dreading to see her there again.

The florist remained focused on helping Ilsa find comfort in the world once more, guiding her hands carefully over delicate petals. There was something soothing about the motion, a quiet language of care that words often failed to convey.

A voice rang out, breaking the moment—but not shattering it.

"Hey, [Y/N]! Another nurse said you wanted to speak with me?"

Nurse Mira's warm, familiar tone carried across the courtyard, drawing both women's attention. [Y/N] turned, offering Ilsa a small, parting smile before rising to her feet. The older woman met her gaze, the ghost of gratitude lingering in her weary eyes, as if silently thanking her for this brief moment of peace.

Falling into step beside Mira, [Y/N] tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I was wondering if I could offer gardening classes to the patients," she began. "I think it would help. Not just while they're here, but when they leave, too. Something to care for, something to build with their own hands."

Mira paused, considering. Her expression softened as she glanced around the hospital grounds—the washed-out walls, the stiff benches, the lifelessness of it all.

"That does sound lovely," she admitted after a moment. "I'll check with Sister Martha and see if we can arrange something. In the meantime, would you mind re-arranging the flowers in the library? The hospital could use a little more color."

A flicker of something unspoken crossed her face. It was pity, perhaps, but not in a cruel way—just the quiet acknowledgment of how bleak this place could be.

[Y/N] smiled, a small but certain thing. "Of course. If flowers can bring life, then that's what I'll do."

Her footsteps were heavy as she stepped inside the hospital, the worn wood beneath her creaking with each step. The thin walls barely concealed the sounds of the world within—muffled coughs, the occasional wail of pain, hushed conversations between nurses trying to soothe restless patients.

But beyond the noise, tucked away from the bleak reality of the wards, stood the library. It was one of the few places in the hospital untouched by suffering, where rows of tall shelves stretched toward the ceiling, their spines lined with forgotten stories. Dust clung to some, left unread for years, but others—fewer in number—had been handled with care, their pages softened by turning fingers.

Many Eldians had never learned to read—at least, not those raised as tools for war. Books had no use when your only purpose was to fight, to die. And yet, here they remained, filled with words waiting for someone to understand them.

A long wooden table rested in the center of the room, lined with glass jars meant to hold flowers. Their water had grown cloudy, petals curled at the edges—remnants of an old attempt to bring life to this place. Now, they stood in quiet decay.

[Y/N] exhaled softly and set to work.

She moved between the shelves first, placing the jars along the rows, ensuring that even the most forgotten corners of the library held something living. Then she began to sort through the flowers, selecting each with care.

The first she placed were blue cornflowers—resilience, hope. The same flower she had tied to Mr. Kruger's door. She wondered if it still remained.

Next, white chrysanthemums—grief, remembrance. A quiet acknowledgment of the lives lost both inside and beyond these walls.

A few sprigs of rosemary nestled between them, their scent sharp, grounding. Healing, memory. A defiance against forgetting.

Lastly, yellow asters—small bursts of warmth in the dim light. Patience, quiet strength. A silent promise that something beautiful could still persist.

She stepped back, surveying her work. The library still bore the weight of silence, but now, amidst the ink and dust, something new had settled in—a whisper of life, a defiance against the bleakness.

Maybe no one would notice. Maybe no one would care. But she did. And for now, that was enough

For a moment, he simply stared. At her. At the flowers. At the blue.

Mr. Kruger wanted to sneer, to call it meaningless.  What was the point of hope when the world had already decided who would suffer and who would rule?

But Eren Yeager remembered.

He remembered the blue of the sky when Armin had opened that forbidden book, voice filled with awe as he whispered of endless waters, of salt carried by the wind, of a world so vast it defied the walls meant to contain them. He remembered the way they clung to that dream, that impossible promise, even when the world told them it wasn't real.

Even now, he could hear his own voice—young, foolish—arguing with Armin. "There's no way water can be filled with salt, idiot." But Armin had only smiled, eyes burning with something beyond certainty. "Then we'll just have to see for ourselves."

That dream had felt like salvation once. A horizon that meant something beyond war, beyond suffering. And yet, standing here now, in this dim-lit library, all Eren saw was a reminder of what he had buried.

His jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists beneath the table.

[Y/N] tilted her head, sensing something unspoken in the way he stared at the flowers, in the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to crush them but couldn't bring himself to.

"Mr. Kruger," she said, gently, carefully, as if trying not to spook an animal that didn't know whether to run or attack. "Do you mind if I place this here?"

She wasn't asking for permission—she would set the bouquet down regardless. But there was something in her voice, something soft, something unbearably kind, that made his chest tighten.

He forced himself to look away, to shut out the past clawing its way forward. "Do whatever you want."

She did.

And as she placed the jar upon the table, the blue of the cornflowers settled beside the ink staining his fingers—Hope, fragile and defiant, resting against resolve.

Mr. Kruger didn't move.

But Eren Yeager, buried beneath, still heard the ocean's call.

He kept his gaze fixed on the blue. "You want to know something for your personalized bouquets?"

[Y/N] stood quietly, her hands folding in front of her, as she let his words hang in the air. "Only if you feel comfortable, Mr. Kruger."

"Red... well, you see a lot of red, don't you?" he said, a faint, almost imperceptible softening around his lips. It was the barest hint of an upward curve, a fleeting echo of a gentler emotion that didn't quite break through his guarded expression.. "But the blue... that's what kept me going."

[Y/N] tilted her head slightly, watching him carefully. "Kept you going through... hard times?"

Eren's gaze hardened, the weight of his words lingering before he quickly dismissed it. "Don't turn them into something they're not, florist." He stood abruptly, the air around him growing heavier with each movement.

And for a man who no longer believed in salvation, admitting that felt dangerously close to confession.

For a moment, it seemed like an illusion, but [Y/N] swore she saw it. In Mr. Kruger's eyes, there was a fleeting vulnerability—something he didn't seem ready to confront or name.

"You... are disgustingly positive," Eren muttered, standing up to gather his letter and pen, his movements quick and sharp, as if trying to shake off the tension that lingered between them.

She blinked at him, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile before she let out a soft laugh. "Well... someone has to be. If not, who would feed the sun's jealousy?"

Eren's gaze lingered on her for a moment, as if searching for something, but he quickly looked away, as though dismissing it altogether.

He paused, his hand still gripping the pen, though his thoughts seemed far from the paper. The silence stretched, but it wasn't uncomfortable—just quiet, like the world outside was waiting for something to shift.

"Why?" he asked suddenly, his voice low, almost begrudging. "Why do you do it? Why keep... doing this? Helping people like Ilsa, even when it seems pointless?"

[Y/N] tilted her head, her gaze soft, but steady. "Because, sometimes... people need a little light to remind them the dark isn't all there is."

Eren scoffed under his breath, his fingers tightening around the pen. "And what happens when the light goes out?"

She took a step forward, her smile never wavering. "Then you light another."

Eren exhaled sharply, feeling the weight of her words settling into the air between them. He wanted to argue, wanted to dismiss her optimism as naïve, but instead, he found himself rooted in place, staring at her like she was some puzzle he couldn't quite solve.

He couldn't understand it. People like her didn't survive in the world he knew—at least, not without breaking first.

"You're insane," he muttered, shaking his head as if to rid himself of the words hanging between them.

"Maybe." She shrugged. "But I'd rather be insane than give up."

For a moment, Eren stayed silent, his mind wrestling with something he couldn't quite place. The world he lived in, the world that had shaped him into Mr. Kruger, didn't allow for the luxury of hope, of kindness. It was all about survival—cold, hard, and unforgiving. But the way [Y/N] spoke, the way she moved through the world with a quiet defiance, made him question everything he'd ever believed.

With a sharp exhale, Eren leaned slightly on his crutch, his grip tightening as he pushed himself to stand. The movement wasn't fluid, a clear reminder of the injury still clinging to him, but he made his way toward the door, his movements stiff, like the weight of the conversation had gotten too much to carry.

He wasn't sure why, but he didn't want to hear any more of her optimism. Not now. Not when it felt like it might crack his carefully constructed mask. But as he reached the threshold, he hesitated.

"[Y/N]..." His voice was quiet, like he was testing her name on his tongue, but he quickly cut himself off, turning away before the words could fall into place.

She looked up, her eyes catching his for a fleeting second. "Yes?"

Eren opened his mouth, but no words came. Instead, he just left, the door clicking softly behind him.

The silence in the room was loud in his absence, and as he walked down the hallway, using the crutch for support with each step, the tension in his chest tightened. The blue flower in his room, sitting in the jar of water, seemed to mock him.

Why couldn't he just throw it away?

Chapter 02/?? | prev chapter

It was shaping up to be a day like any other at Liberio Hospital.

The familiar hum of suffering filled the air, punctuated by the rhythmic squeak of cart wheels and the distant calls of nurses. [Y/N] moved through the hallways with quiet purpose, the weight of her basket a comforting presence against her arm.

Yet, beneath the surface of routine, something felt different. A subtle shift lingered from her brief encounter with the soldier in room 113. She couldn't quite place it, but the memory of his distant green eyes shadowed her thoughts as she reached Mr. Orlovo's door.

She knocked gently. "Good morning, Mr. Orlovo. It's me again."

A faint acknowledgment came from within. Taking it as permission, she stepped inside.

She offered him a warm smile as she reached into her basket. "I see you're doing better today," she said softly. "And I've brought you what I promised."

From within the woven bundle, she carefully pulled out a small bouquet, tied neatly with a silver ribbon. "You spoke of the warm sun on your farm, so I included these marigolds. And for the soft touch of the sheep you loved, I've added baby's breath. I hope their scent and texture bring back some of those peaceful afternoons."

She glanced around before asking, "Where would you like me to place them?"

Mr. Orlovo's weathered hand lifted, pointing toward the dresser. There, beside a simple wooden frame, sat a faded photograph—his family, she presumed.

Silently, she filled a small jar with water and set the flowers in place, adjusting them just so.

"I'll remind Nurse Mira to water them for you," she assured him. "And I'll visit again next week with a new bundle."

She smiled, but Mr. Orlovo's eyes remained fixed on the marigolds, their golden petals a vivid echo of sun-drenched fields long past.

--

As she stepped out of Mr. Orlovo's room, her next destination already in mind, her feet hesitated just outside room 113.

Mr. Kruger.

She lingered there, her fingers tightening slightly around the handle of her basket. Should she try again? He hadn't exactly welcomed her yesterday, but she glanced down at the vibrant array of flowers nestled within her basket. She could spare just one.

Taking a quiet breath, she raised her hand and knocked gently.

"Mr. Kruger, it's the florist."

She wasn't sure if he would answer. But deep down, she wanted to bring color to every room, to every soldier. Even the ones who refused to see it.

Silence.

It stretched long and unbroken, swallowing the distant murmur of the hospital hallway. Just as she considered walking away, a quiet, weary sigh drifted from behind the door.

"I just wanted to leave a single flower for your room, Mr. Kruger," [Y/N] murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

From her basket, she selected a single blue cornflower—its petals vibrant, a quiet symbol of hope in the midst of hardship. With gentle fingers, she looped a silver ribbon around its slender stem and stepped forward.

Carefully, she tied it to the cool metal of the door handle, letting the bloom rest softly against the wood.

She didn't wait for a response. With a final, fleeting glance at the closed door, she turned and continued down the hall.

The afternoon sun bore down on the dusty streets as [Y/N] made her way back toward the market. The wind carried the scent of wood smoke, rustling the hanging laundry, stirring the air with small reminders that, even in this hell, people still found slivers of comfort.

But peace never lasted long.

Slumped against the side of a building lay a woman—her suffering etched in every inch of her battered form. Her torn clothes, the blood on her lips, the raw scratches beneath her broken nails—all silent evidence of a fight she hadn't won. Beside her, discarded in the dirt, was the single marker of her existence: her Eldian armband.

[Y/N] froze. Her breath hitched as her fingers instinctively pressed against the band on her own arm. Around them, people walked by, indifferent, uncaring—her own people, turning their backs, just as they always did.

She couldn't.

Shrugging off her jacket, she knelt down, draping it over the woman's trembling shoulders. Her voice wavered as she spoke. "Miss, come on. Let me help you, let me take you to the hospital."

The woman stirred, barely, turning lifeless eyes toward her. When she spoke, her voice was hollow, stripped of hope.

"What's the point?" she murmured. "Every breath is just another moment in hell."

[Y/N] swallowed hard, her throat tight with unspoken grief. It was true—every day, every second, was a slow, merciless torment for people like them.

Yet, somehow, words spilled from her lips before she could stop them.

"You're still breathing. That means you still have a choice. Don't let them make it for you. Please... let me help you."

The woman didn't answer. She didn't nod. She didn't move.

But a single tear slipped down her cheek, carrying the weight of everything she couldn't say.

Maybe she's right, the woman thought. Maybe, just this once, I can try to believe there's something left worth living for.

Slowly, she stood, and without a word, let [Y/N] guide her toward the hospital.

--

The afternoon sun, filtered through the grimy windowpane of room 113, cast long shadows across the sparsely furnished space. Dust drifted lazily in the stagnant air, catching the light in fleeting, golden specks.

Eren lay motionless on the stiff mattress, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, though his mind was far from idle. Thoughts clashed like opposing tides, each one eroding the edges of his carefully maintained focus.

The scent of the flower still lingered. That damn flower. It remained tied to his door handle, its striking blue a defiant contrast against the dull wood. A small, meaningless gesture—pointless, fleeting. And yet, it persisted. Like an echo in the otherwise sterile air.

Irritated, he exhaled slowly, shifting his focus to the world beyond his window.

From here, he could see the streets of Liberio stretch out before him, a familiar display of subdued movement. Eldians shuffled through their daily routines, their steps measured, their voices low. Marleyan soldiers lingered at the edges of their existence, ever-watchful, ever-present.

Usually, he observed the crowds with detached scrutiny, searching for cracks beneath the surface, for any flicker of rebellion, any sign that they remembered what they truly were.

But today, something else caught his attention.

A disturbance had formed across the street—a small cluster of people gathered near a building. Their hushed murmurs carried faintly on the dry wind. At first, it was unremarkable. Just another scene in a city built on quiet suffering.

Then, he saw her.

The florist.

His sharp gaze tracked the familiar sway of her basket, the calm, measured grace in the way she moved. She stepped through the gathering crowd without hesitation, kneeling beside a crumpled figure slumped against the wall.

Eren's eyes narrowed. Even from this distance, he recognized the signs—the torn fabric, the dark stain spreading beside her. He had seen it before. The aftermath of brutality, of power wielded without consequence.

But it wasn't just the fallen woman that unsettled him. It was the others.

The way they averted their gazes. The way their steps quickened, their postures stiffened, as if proximity alone could make them next.

Disgust coiled low in his gut. Cowardice? No—self-preservation. A learned instinct, beaten into them by years of submission.

And yet—

The florist moved differently.

Without hesitation, she shrugged off her jacket, the fabric a fleeting stroke of color against the muted backdrop of the street, and draped it over the woman's trembling shoulders.

Eren's fingers twitched at his side.

Why? What did she gain from this?

He watched as she spoke, her voice lost to the distance, but her intent clear in every movement. Her concern, her defiance against the silent decree of indifference—

It was foolish.

It was pointless.

And yet, something in him twisted, deep and unfamiliar.

Disbelief? No. Something closer to recognition.

His jaw clenched as he forced the feeling down, burying it beneath the weight of logic. Sentimentality was a weakness.

But still, his eyes never left her.

Even as she rose, even as she helped the woman to her feet, even as she guided her toward the hospital—

He watched.

Yet turned his head back toward the flower—just a simple gesture from a foolish girl.

Would she still offer such kindness if she knew the truth? If she knew what was coming? If she knew who he really was?

Eren picked up the delicate bloom, turning it between his fingers. The petals were a stark contrast to the world he knew—soft, unblemished, untouched by the rot of this place. Why offer something so gentle to someone like him?

His grip tightened slightly.

Why were they cast into paradis, condemned to live in endless misery?

Yet, despite everything, despite the chains wrapped around their throats, she still moved through the world with warmth. Still found color in a place designed to drain it away.

The thought gnawed at him, an irritation he couldn't shake.

He should have discarded the flower. He should have crushed it between his fingers and let the petals scatter, meaningless as everything else.

And yet—

Without thinking, he set it gently into the water cup beside his bed.

Pointless sentimentality.

His eyes lingered on it for a moment longer before he turned away.

--

With only the flickering candlelight to guide her, [Y/N] pressed her pen to the worn pages of her notebook, recording everything she could remember about the people she had met that day.

Her hands still shook. The woman in the alley—the lifeless stare, the torn clothing, the blood on her lips—lingered in her mind like a shadow that wouldn't fade. It could have been her. It could have been anyone. Left to die, alone, with nothing but memories of suffering.

She exhaled slowly, forcing her thoughts back to the task at hand. Her notes were more than just words; they were promises, reminders that she would return, that she would try again.

Mr. Orlovo had smiled today. A small, weary smile, but a smile nonetheless. Ms. Gryun would need more time—she still hesitated at the door, unsure whether to accept kindness after so many years of hardship. And then there was Mr. Kruger.

She had met countless soldiers, each carrying their own ghosts, but he was different. There was no flicker of warmth, no trace of longing for the life he once had. His silence was not hesitation—it was a wall, built high and impenetrable. She thought back to the way his green eyes had met hers, cold and distant, filled not with sorrow, but with something heavier. Resentment.

Tapping her pen against the paper, she could only stare at the empty space beneath his name.

--

The air in the room was heavy, thick with the remnants of his thoughts, the kind that couldn't be ignored or hidden away. Eren clenched his jaw and turned his gaze back to the blue cornflower, the symbol of something he couldn't fully name, a fleeting gesture of softness from someone who had no idea of who he really was.

The flower hung limp, as if even it had grown weary of the attention he was paying it, yet it persisted—its color duller in the dim light of morning, but still there, still defying the grayness around it. He tried to focus on something else. He tried to return to his mission, his purpose, the only things that had ever made sense to him. But the image of her—the florist—her quiet kindness in a world that seemed to have forgotten what it meant to care, kept slipping into his mind like an unwelcome intrusion.

He shifted, his prosthetic leg creaking beneath him as he rose from the bed, the numbness of his remaining leg a harsh reminder of the price he had paid. His hands, still steady from years of discipline, reached for the flower, pulling it slowly from the door handle. He cradled it in his palm, feeling its delicate petals against his calloused fingers.

What was the point of this? Of caring? Of acts so simple, yet so foreign in a world that only seemed to value survival through brutality? She had no reason to show him such kindness.

Yet she had.

He tightened his grip on the stem of the cornflower, the sharpness of the flower's edge biting into his palm. A fleeting thought struck him—a momentary glimpse into a life he could never return to, where such gestures didn't feel out of place.

But that was a dream. A dangerous one. A fantasy. The world he lived in now had no room for such softness. Not for him. Not for anyone like him.

Still, he couldn't shake the feeling. The feeling that this small act of kindness, however insignificant in the grand scheme of things, might be something worth holding onto—something he had forgotten how to recognize until now.

He placed the flower carefully in the water, watching it bob gently as the light from the window inched further across the room. The ache in his chest didn't fade, but the sharpness of it lessened, just slightly.

For a moment, the world outside the hospital room felt a little smaller, a little more manageable. And maybe, just for a moment, Eren Jeager let himself believe that there was still something worth holding on to.

--

The morning air in Liberio market was cool, carrying the familiar scent of damp earth and blooming petals around [Y/N]'s flower stand. Yet, amidst the fragrance of the sunflowers, there was the low hum of tension—a cacophony of voices mingling with the distant clinking of Marleyan patrols' boots, a reminder of the fragile peace they lived under.

[Y/N] carefully arranged a cluster of vibrant sunflowers, their faces tilted towards the weak sunlight, a small beacon of cheer amidst the muted tones of the internment zone. Her fingers moved with practiced ease, a silent conversation between her and the delicate blooms.

"Oh dear, there you go again, losing yourself in those bouquets." Ms. Schmidt's voice, usually carrying a fond, almost automatic quality, held a subtle shift today.

[Y/N] looked up, a smile already forming, but it faltered slightly as she met the old woman's eyes. The familiar wistfulness was still there, the ever-present shadow of her loss, but there was something else too. A quiet knowing, a flicker of something that hadn't been there before.

"[Y/N] dear," Ms. Schmidt continued, her gaze lingering on [Y/N]'s face, "you were... helping someone yesterday, weren't you? Down by the old bakery."

A knot tightened in [Y/N]'s stomach. She hadn't expected anyone to notice. "Yes, Ms. Schmidt. A woman who seemed unwell."

Ms. Schmidt nodded slowly, her eyes holding a depth [Y/N] hadn't seen before. She didn't speak at once, her gaze lingering a moment longer, as though trying to measure something in [Y/N]'s expression. It wasn't accusation, but something akin to understanding, tinged with quiet sorrow.

"She was... hurt," the old woman said softly, the word hanging heavy in the air. "You helped her." It wasn't a question, but a statement, a silent acknowledgment of something significant.

[Y/N] simply nodded, unsure what to say. The usual request for news of Otto, the familiar recounting of his promised hyacinths, didn't come. Instead, an unexpected tension sat between them, pressing down the familiar rhythm of their conversation.

Ms. Schmidt stood there for a moment longer, her gaze thoughtful, before offering a small, almost hesitant smile. "You have a good heart, child. A rare thing these days."

Her words lingered in the cool morning air, the weight of them settling over [Y/N]. She wasn't used to being seen—at least not in this way. Her usual responses, the polite exchanges, the distance she kept, all seemed suddenly out of place. She nodded stiffly, unsure how to reply, and watched as Ms. Schmidt turned and continued her slow walk through the market, leaving [Y/N] with a sense of unease and a feeling that something had shifted in their usual interaction.

Quickly, though, [Y/N] shook off the strange heaviness in her chest. There was no time to dwell on it. She had promised Ilsa, the woman she helped yesterday, that she would spend time with her and listen to her story—just to bring her some comfort. It was a small thing, but perhaps the only thing she could offer.

With that thought, she carefully selected a bouquet of soothing lavender and gentle white lilies, hoping their calming fragrance would offer some small measure of peace. She added a few sprigs of rosemary, a symbol of remembrance, a quiet acknowledgment of the pain the woman had endured.

With her basket filled, [Y/N] made her way to the Liberio Hospital. She found Ilsa resting on a bench in the courtyard, her face still bearing the marks of her ordeal, but her eyes held a flicker of something less hollow than yesterday.

[Y/N] sat beside her, offering a gentle smile and the bouquet. "Are you feeling better, Ilsa?" she asked softly, her tone warm but laced with quiet concern.

Ilsa gave her a weary smile in return, but said nothing, as though the weight of her experience had rendered her speechless. Still, there was something there now—something that suggested she might find a way to speak about it, or at least be open to listening.

[Y/N] didn't push, instead letting the silence settle between them, allowing the flowers to speak where words could not.

Ilsa's eyes met [Y/N]'s, the quiet flicker of recognition and gratitude mingling with the remnants of exhaustion. 

She nodded, her movements slow and deliberate, as if every action required more energy than she had left. The faintest trace of a smile touched her lips, but it was fragile, a reminder of how far the woman had come from the depths of her despair.

"I think so," Ilsa replied softly, her voice hoarse. "The worst of it, at least." She glanced down at the bouquet, her fingers hovering over the lavender and lilies, but she didn't reach for them. It was as if the gesture itself was almost too much—too kind, too much of a reminder of the tenderness that seemed so out of place in the world around them.

[Y/N] sat silently for a moment, giving Ilsa the space she needed, the quiet understanding that sometimes, words were just a burden. She allowed the soft scent of the flowers to fill the air between them, an unspoken invitation to let the silence be enough. The rosemary sprigs caught the light, their muted green and brown giving off a quiet strength, a symbol of endurance.

"You don't have to talk if you don't want to," [Y/N] said, her voice gentle, almost as if she were afraid the woman might shatter under the weight of conversation. "But if you ever feel like sharing... I'll be here."

Ilsa's gaze wandered back to the bouquet, her expression unreadable for a moment, before she let out a slow, almost imperceptible sigh. The quiet weight of the world was pressing down on her, but for once, it seemed as though she didn't carry it alone.

"Why did you help me?" Ilsa's question was soft, but it held a depth that spoke to the skepticism born of years of being abandoned, ignored, forgotten.

[Y/N] tilted her head, her gaze softening as she considered the question. It wasn't the first time someone had asked her why, and she'd never quite found the right words to explain it.

"I guess... I've seen too much of this world," she began slowly, "and I can't pretend it's okay. But there's still room for kindness. Even in a place like this." She paused, her gaze drifting to the flowers in her hand. "I wanted to give you something that wasn't pain. Something that reminded you that the world hasn't forgotten how to be kind, even if it's hard to see sometimes."

The words hung in the air for a long while, the simple truth of them sitting between them like an anchor in a storm. Ilsa remained silent, but the flicker of something different was there in her eyes, a faint glimmer of hope—or perhaps, simply the space to believe that hope was still possible.

[Y/N] smiled softly and handed her the bouquet, not as an offer to fix everything, but simply as a gesture—a small, persistent reminder that, even in this place, there was still room for gentleness.

As Ilsa took the flowers, her fingers brushed against [Y/N]'s, and for a moment, there was something fragile and beautiful between them—two souls caught in the wreckage of a world that had tried to break them, yet still searching for something to hold on to.

"I'll check on you soon," [Y/N] said, standing up, her heart heavy but filled with quiet resolve. "Just remember... you're not alone."

A little distance away, near the edge of the courtyard overlooking the bustling street, sat a solitary figure.

Mr. Kruger, his back turned slightly toward [Y/N] and the woman, appeared to be idly observing the ebb and flow of people beyond the hospital gates. Marleyan officers patrolled the streets, their stiff postures a constant, oppressive reminder of the world they lived in. Eldians moved around them with practiced obedience, their shoulders drawn in, their steps measured. It was a rhythm he had come to know well—a life lived on a leash, in quiet submission.

And yet, his eyes kept returning to the florist.

She sat beside the injured woman, leaning in slightly, her expression open, unguarded. Every movement she made—whether tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear or adjusting the bouquet she had brought—was touched with an effortless sincerity. It was a stark contrast to the indifference he had witnessed yesterday, to the hurried, averted gazes of those who had passed by.

He watched as the woman hesitated before taking the offered flowers, her hands trembling slightly, as if unfamiliar with such kindness. The florist only smiled, patient, unfazed. No pity in her eyes, just quiet understanding.

Eren frowned.

Why? What did she gain from this? He had spent years dissecting human nature, stripping it down to its rawest, most brutal truths. People acted out of necessity, out of fear, out of self-interest. Compassion was often just another form of guilt, a way to ease one's own conscience.

But this girl... she didn't seem to carry the weight of obligation, nor did she appear burdened by disillusionment. She simply existed in direct defiance of the world's cruelty.

His fingers curled slightly on his knee.

How?

How could she still find it in herself to care, to hope, to offer warmth in a place designed to crush it out of people?

He told himself it didn't matter. That soon, none of this would exist anyway.

And yet, his gaze lingered.

A part of him—one he barely acknowledged—was beginning to wonder if there was something to be learned from the way she moved through this broken world. 

Not as someone blind to its horrors, but as someone who chose, despite everything, to keep reaching for the light.

chapter 01/???

Flowers speak in whispers. A language older than war, softer than sorrow.

A bouquet can confess love or weave a silent curse. A lily at a doorstep means sympathy, but at a grave, it means goodbye. Daisies are innocence. Peonies, longing. Poppies, remembrance. Some flowers bloom only in the presence of death—jasmine creeping over headstones, lilies unfolding in mourning halls. Others belong to lovers, pressed between pages, hidden in coat pockets, carried like secrets against the skin.

And then, there are the flowers that grow where they shouldn't. The stubborn ones. The ones that break through cracks in forgotten roads, daring to bloom in places ruined by fire and grief.

Those are the ones [Y/N] understands best.

"Oh dear, there you go again, losing yourself in those bouquets."

Ms. Schmidt's voice pulled her from her thoughts. The old woman shook her head with a fond smile, just as she did every day. She was the grandmother of a fallen soldier, one of the many left waiting, clinging to ghosts. She had said the same thing before her grandson went to war, before he became a name on a casualty list, before she started living in a yesterday that would never return.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Schmidt. Flowers have a language of their own. Would you care for one?"

She offered, though she already knew the answer.

"No, dear. I'll wait until Otto comes back. He promised to buy this old lady a purple hyacinth bouquet. I hear it's a sign of victory."

A simple smile. Hope in her eyes. Hope that didn't know how to die.

[Y/N] swallowed. "Yes, Ms. Schmidt. They do mean victory."

She couldn't bring herself to say the rest.

Purple hyacinths mean victory, but they also mean sorrow.

"I thought so. Well, I don't want to disrupt your stand, so I'll be on my way."

Ms. Schmidt turned with the same quiet enthusiasm she carried every day, making her way toward the post office, where she would sit from morning till dusk, waiting for a letter that would never come.

The usual hum of Liberio pressed in around [Y/N]'s flower stand, a low thrum of voices, the rhythmic clatter of a handcart rolling over uneven cobblestones, the distant laughter of children playing in the alleyways. Even in the early morning, the internment zone was alive, restless, a hive of subdued movement. So many people, all confined within the same unyielding walls.

"Excuse me, miss! Can you help me pick a flower? I want to give it to a boy."

The voice was small, nearly lost in the noise.

A little girl, no older than twelve, stood before the stand, her fingers curled in the fabric of her dress.

[Y/N] smiled, stepping around the stall to kneel at eye level. "Of course, love. Tell me, what is he like?"

She always liked to know about the people receiving her flowers. It made the bouquets feel more personal, more like messages whispered between hearts.

The girl scrunched up her nose, thinking hard. "Well... he has blond hair and big hazel eyes... oh! And he's brave, I think. And he wants to fly."

Fly?

[Y/N] let the word sit on her tongue, tasting the innocence of childhood dreams. She reached for a cluster of soft yellow roses. "These," she said, holding one out for the girl to see. "They mean friendship and kindness. A sweet gesture for a brave boy."

The girl's eyes lit up. "Yes! He'd like those."

She carefully counted out her small collection of coins, trading them for the flowers before clutching them tightly to her chest. Then, just as quickly as she had come, she turned and disappeared into the crowd.

[Y/N] watched her go, a faint smile touching her lips. Fly, she mused. Children and their dreams.

She loved her job. In a place weighed down by grief, she had the rare privilege of offering something beautiful—something that, even for a fleeting moment, could make people forget the hell they lived in. She cherished the way their faces softened as they spoke of their loved ones, how their eyes brightened when they described them, how, just for a heartbeat, they seemed to step outside the misery of their world.

[Y/N] was carefully arranging a bouquet of scarlet poppies when she noticed a small contingent of Marleyan soldiers walking briskly down the street. They flanked a man who favored his left leg, his face pale and drawn. Another wounded soldier, another casualty of the endless tension that suffocated Liberio. She barely spared them a glance before returning to her work. The hospital was in that direction. Such sights were nothing new.

A woman standing nearby had stopped to stare, but her partner quickly tugged at her sleeve. "Come on, we can't look at the soldiers too long. Who knows what the Marleyans might do to us? Let's buy our bouquet and go."

The man turned to [Y/N] with weary eyes, the kind that had seen too much yet still burned with quiet desperation. "Hi, can we buy a bouquet? It's for her mother. I'm trying to get her blessing."

[Y/N] offered a small smile. "Of course. Tell me about her. Every bouquet should feel like it belongs."

The woman hesitated, then spoke softly. "She's reserved. Always hoped the world would be different. Her hands..." she looked down at her own, tracing invisible lines against her palm. "They're worn, full of creases. She knits a lot."

[Y/N] nodded and reached for the first flower. A white camellia. "For maternal love," she murmured, tucking it into the bouquet.

Next, she selected a purple aster. "She must be a patient woman, waiting for a world that never changed."

The gladiolus came next, its tall, strong stalk standing out among the delicate petals. "This one is for her strength. Endurance."

She paused before adding a dark red carnation, glancing at the man. "Deep love, but also caution." The unspoken words lingered in the air.

An olive branch, a quiet promise of peace and protection. A myrtle blossom, symbolizing devotion.

Finally, she lifted a chrysanthemum, turning it between her fingers. "And this... for the unspoken things. The sorrows we carry."

The woman took the finished bouquet as if holding something fragile, something sacred. "Oh my... it's lovely," she breathed, eyes glistening as she turned to her partner. "She'll love this, darling."

The sight of her smile alone seemed to lift the weight from his shoulders. If only for a moment, he forgot the war waiting for him. And only the stars knew whether he would return.

She glanced at the sky. It was nearly noon now. The warm sun hung in the air, casting long shadows on the cobblestones beneath her feet. It was time to close up her stand. As always, she moved with quiet grace, her fingers brushing the petals one last time, as if saying goodbye to each flower.

She gently pushed the small camellia bud down into the bin where she kept the others. The camellia was still a bud—fragile and waiting. Each day, she hoped it would bloom, and each day, she watched it patiently, knowing that it would open on its own time.

The old watering can, already filled with water from the early morning, was perched by the stand. She lifted it carefully, giving each flower the water it needed, her hands moving with practiced ease. The marigolds, their bright orange petals beginning to wilt, still held some vitality. She watered them gently, fingers brushing against the edges of the petals, feeling the last traces of their life.

There was something meditative about the routine. As she watered, she took a moment to breathe in the scent of the earth and flowers—a quiet reminder of the life she tended to each day, even in the midst of chaos. The flowers were her sanctuary.

When the watering was done, she set the can back beside the stand. Then, moving with the same tenderness, she picked up the drying marigolds. Their vibrant petals were curling slightly at the edges, the color fading, but they still held a touch of warmth. These would be perfect for tea, she thought. She had promised a friend some of her herbal blend, and the marigolds were a key ingredient. They helped calm the mind, ease the body, and lift the spirits.

She placed the marigolds gently into a small pouch, her fingers brushing over the petals as if to send them off with a blessing. The pouch was small, but it would be just enough. She tucked it carefully into her basket, alongside her notebook, pen, and coin pouch.

"Goodbye, dears," she murmured softly, almost as if speaking to a group of old friends. "I'll be back soon." Her voice was quiet, but firm in its assurance. The flowers, now tucked away for the day, seemed to rest in peace beneath the wooden shelves of the stand.

With one last lingering glance at the corner of the market, she turned and began to start her Chores.

Her first stop would be the Karpov Bakery. It was a small, familiar haven tucked between the rows of overcrowded market stalls. As [Y/N] passed by the other stands, she overheard the endless bargaining and the harsh calls for rations—voices raised in frustration, the collective pulse of the market vibrating in the air. Oh dear, another day filled with sounds of suffering, she thought, feeling the weight of it press down on her. She tried to distract herself by counting the stones underfoot—an old habit, a simple act that never truly shielded her from the harsh reality.

Dust, dry earth, and blood, a cocktail of scents clung to everything in the internment zone. Yet, despite the oppressive atmosphere, it was the comforting smell of warm bread and yeasty sweetness that drew her forward, a faint glimmer of solace in an otherwise bleak world. The Karpov Bakery, with its homely scent of freshly baked goods, was one of the few places where, for a moment, life felt a little softer.

She was almost at the bakery when the sharp voice of a patrolling officer sliced through the low hum of the market.

"You, stop right there!"

Everyone froze, eyes shifting nervously towards the source. The officer's face twisted with disdain as he pointed an accusing finger at a man. "Where is your band, devil?"

The word made [Y/N]'s stomach tighten in disgust. It was a word she had grown to loathe, associated with them, the Eldians, merely for the sins of the past. She could feel the weight of history in it, the condemnation, the hatred, all of it directed at the innocent.

Her gaze flicked toward the man, watching as the officer's hand clutched his rifle tighter. She couldn't stand to witness the cruelty that would inevitably follow. It was something she had seen far too many times, and each time, it burned her in the same way. Without thinking, she ducked into the nearest alley, her heart pounding as she quickened her steps.

As soon as she turned the corner, the stifling heat of the bakery wrapped around her, soft and comforting, pushing away the harshness of the outside world. The yeasty air carried the scent of freshly baked loaves and pastries, filling her lungs with warmth. It felt like stepping into a different world, even if only for a moment.

Behind the counter, Jannie Karpov, her friend and the bakery's owner, looked up from her kneading. Flour dusted her apron, and a faint streak of dough marked her cheek. When she saw [Y/N], a smile spread across her face, the familiar, crinkled lines at the corners of her eyes deepening.

"[Y/N]! Good to see you. The usual?" Jannie's voice was light, a welcomed contrast to the tension in the streets outside.

[Y/N] smiled, feeling a little lighter. "Morning, Jannie. Yes, please. And how are things smelling in here today?" She stepped inside, letting the warmth soothe her.

Jannie chuckled, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her face with the back of her hand. "Busy as ever. Everyone seems to need a bit of comfort in these times, and bread's a good place to start." Her voice dropped slightly, as if weighed down by a quiet worry. "I heard they brought in a few more injured at the hospital last night. You heading that way later?" Her gaze held a flicker of concern.

[Y/N] nodded, keeping her tone steady. "Just my usual deliveries," she said, though her heart ached. She could already see the crowded wards in her mind—the stench of antiseptic, the quiet groans, the lost hope.

Jannie sighed softly, her gaze momentarily far away. "Well, you be careful out there. This place... it feels like a tinderbox sometimes." She reached for a warm loaf, her hands moving with practiced ease. Then, with a wink, she slipped something extra into [Y/N]'s basket. "And for my favorite florist, a little something extra."

[Y/N] glanced down to see a golden, sweet roll nestled among the other goods. She smiled at the gesture. "Thank you," she said softly, slipping the roll into her basket.

"And," she added, her voice warm but slightly teasing, "I brought you what I promised."

From the folds of her apron, [Y/N] pulled out the small pouch of drying marigolds, careful not to let them unravel. She held it out gently, her fingers tracing the edges of the pouch as if to remind herself that they still had purpose.

Jannie's eyes lit up when she saw it. "You really do spoil me," she laughed softly, accepting the pouch with gratitude. "These will make a lovely tea. I'll be sure to save them for when I need a little peace."

[Y/N] smiled, though her thoughts lingered on the woman's words. Everyone needed peace these days, but it was a rare commodity. "I'm happy to help," she replied quietly. "I know how hard it can get here."

Jannie smiled back, though there was a sadness in her gaze that spoke volumes. "We all need something to hold onto. I'm just glad you're here to share that with me."

They stood in a moment of quiet understanding before [Y/N] broke the silence. "I'll leave you to it. I've got to get back to work."

"Of course," Jannie replied, her smile returning. "Take care, [Y/N]. And remember, if you ever need a break, you know where to find me."

With a nod and a final smile, [Y/N] picked up her basket and turned toward the door, the comforting warmth of the bakery still lingering as she stepped back into the chaos outside.

The familiar weight of her basket settled comfortably on her arm as [Y/N] turned down the well-worn path toward the Liberio Hospital.

The route took her past rows of tightly packed houses, their walls sagging under years of neglect. Laundry hung precariously from makeshift lines, fluttering weakly in the dry wind. The muted murmur of countless lives echoed from behind those thin walls, each home holding its own small universe of stories. She passed children playing in a dusty patch of ground, their laughter hollow and muted, a far cry from the carefree joy she imagined the world once had, before the war.

A knot of worry tightened in her chest at the thought of Jannie's words, about the ever-growing number of injuries. The hospital had become a constant fixture of pain and suffering in this corner of the world—a grim reminder that peace was something they could only dream of.

The gates of the hospital loomed ahead, rusted and battered by time, bearing the scars of struggle and neglect. It was a far cry from the pristine, well-kept facilities of the Marleyans.

As she stepped into the courtyard, the atmosphere was heavy, filled with the quiet hum of people trying to heal from the war. A few patients, still in the early stages of recovery, attempted to walk with shaky steps, while others sat with family members who had come to visit. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the palpable weight of suffering. But there was a quiet resilience too, visible in the patients' eyes as they clung to the fragments of life that remained.

A nurse quickly approached her, her face lighting up with recognition. "We missed you yesterday, [Y/N]! We've had so many new patients, each one worse than the last." Mira's voice carried a mixture of warmth and concern as she guided [Y/N] toward the main office.

[Y/N] laughed softly, though the sound was tinged with apology. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to make it yesterday. I wasn't feeling well, but I do hope to make up for it today. Oh, and Ms. Schmidt passed by my stand again, as she does every day. Is she feeling any better?"

Mira's expression darkened for a moment. "No, I'm afraid she's getting worse." She sighed, her voice soft with sorrow. "I wish I could spend more time with her, but the constant flow of new patients... it's overwhelming. But here, these are our newest arrivals, and the ones you missed yesterday." She handed [Y/N] a packet of papers, the crisp sheets filled with names and photos of the patients. "Take care of yourself, alright? Don't overwork."

"I won't," [Y/N] promised, tucking the packet under her arm as she walked quietly down the hall. The first name on her list was Len Orlovo, a man who had lost two fingers in the war.

She reached his room and paused outside the door, listening to the muffled sounds of movement inside. Taking a deep breath, she knocked gently. "Mr. Orlovo, may I come in? It's [Y/N], the florist," she called, her voice soft but clear. She always introduced herself this way, many of the patients here were cynical and jaded, and she'd learned the hard way that only those who knew who was coming would open their doors.

There was a pause before she heard a gravelly voice from inside. "Come in," it called, and she slowly turned the handle.

Inside the room sat an old man, his face weathered and worn, yet his eyes still held a flicker of hope. [Y/N] was accustomed to seeing soldiers of all ages; to the Marleyans, age mattered little, if you could walk, you were sent to the frontlines.

"May I sit?" she asked, gesturing to the seat across from the bed where Mr. Orlovo sat. He nodded without a word.

She always tried to lighten the mood, offering a gentle smile in an attempt to break the heaviness of the war-torn silence. "If I may ask, Mr. Orlovo, how was your life before the war? You look quite dashing, one can only imagine what you were like in your younger years."

There was a slight pause, and his eyes softened, as though the question had taken him back to a time before the war. "I was a farmer. With my brothers, I tended to the livestock..." His voice carried a wistful note.

[Y/N] pulled out her pen and notebook, making quick notes on the fresh page. Mr. Len Orlovo—farmer, tended to livestock, has brothers. She made sure to capture every detail, as these memories would guide her in crafting a bouquet that could transport him back to those moments, if only for a while. "That sounds lovely. I imagine you enjoyed being with the animals. You seem to have a kind heart, someone who understands the quiet nature of animals."

He glanced down at his hands, his gaze lingering on the missing fingers. "I was. I can still remember the soft touch of the sheep, and the warmth of the sun as I worked through the harsh afternoons..." His voice grew quieter, and for a brief moment, it was as if he could feel the warmth of those memories once again.

[Y/N] silently jotted down the details. Loves soft sheep, remembers the harsh sun of the afternoon. She closed her notebook and looked up, giving him a soft smile. "Thank you, Mr. Orlovo. It was wonderful to hear about your past. I promise to come back again tomorrow."

She bowed slightly, as a sign of respect, and he smiled faintly in return, the brief connection between them evident. "I'll be here, [Y/N]."

With that, she slowly turned, walking toward the door, and gently closed it behind her, the weight of his memories lingering in her mind.

[Y/N] consulted the next name on her list: "??? Kruger."

She found the room number and walked down the hall, her footsteps echoing softly on the linoleum floor. Reaching the door, she paused for a moment, taking a deep breath to center herself after her previous encounter with Mr. Orlovo. She knocked gently. "Mr. Kruger? May I come in? It's [Y/N], the florist."

She waited, but the silence stretched longer than expected. 'Is there no one inside?' she wondered. It wasn't uncommon for some soldiers to prefer isolation, unwilling to face strangers when they were so deeply entrenched in their personal struggles.

As [Y/N] began to turn away, she heard a faint voice, raspy and filled with weariness. "Come in."

"Thank you, Mr. Kruger," she replied softly, opening the door just enough to step inside. She knew not to appear too eager or intrusive—some soldiers could be deeply cynical, and her gentle approach often helped to bridge that gap.

Inside, Mr. Kruger lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His hair was overgrown, partially obscuring the bandage wrapped around his face, covering the eye that had clearly suffered a severe injury. Beside the bed, a crutch leaned against the wall, and where his left leg should have been, only fabric was tied to the bedframe, marking the absence of his limb.

"You must be new here, Mr. Kruger," [Y/N] said, keeping her tone light and respectful. "I make custom bouquets for those who stay in the hospital." She held her hands in front of her, an unspoken gesture of peace, an attempt to provide comfort in the subtle way she knew best.

But Mr. Kruger only exhaled, a heavy sigh, and closed his eyes, as if the weight of the world had become too much to bear.

[Y/N] stood quietly for a moment, sensing his reluctance. She was no stranger to soldiers in pain—physical, emotional, or both—but each person had their own walls to put up, and she never pushed too hard. 

She simply waited, giving him space, knowing that sometimes silence was the only thing soldiers needed. After a few more moments passed in stillness, [Y/N] took a small, almost imperceptible step back, her hand lightly resting on the handle of her woven basket.

"I understand if you're not feeling up to visitors right now, Mr. Kruger," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, as though speaking louder might disrupt the fragile air between them.

"I just wanted to let you know that I visit the hospital each day with fresh flowers. If you ever feel like having some color in your room... or if you'd like me to create a bouquet for you, please don't hesitate to let Nurse Mira know." She gestured vaguely toward the hallway, nodding slightly, her tone gentle and understanding. "There's no pressure at all."

He turned his head just enough to face her. His green eyes, unlike the others she'd encountered, were void of any glimmer of hope. Instead, they seemed distant, almost hollow, as if he had long since abandoned any expectation of kindness or recovery. There was a flicker of something else—perhaps disdain, but it was difficult to decipher in the stillness of the room.

[Y/N] gave a soft smile, though it was tinged with sadness for what lay behind those eyes. "Alright, Mr. Kruger. I hope you feel better soon," she said, bowing slightly, her respect and empathy lingering in her voice.

With that, she quietly turned, her footsteps muffled by the soft carpet as she exited the room, her thoughts lingering on the soldier whose soul seemed as broken as his body.

She moved on, but the encounter remained, heavy like a shadow, as she continued her rounds.

The scent of the flowers, faint but persistent, lingered in the sterile air long after she left. Kruger remained staring at the ceiling, his body still and his mind working overtime, sifting through the fragments of information he'd gathered from the brief encounter.

The woman with the flowers... Her kindness had been a fleeting anomaly, an unexpected splash of unwanted color in the otherwise gray, desolate world he had made for himself here. He couldn't afford distractions. A gentle touch, a smile—these were things he had no use for, especially in a place like this. His purpose was clear, unwavering, and these small acts of compassion had no place in it.

He forced himself to push the thought away, focusing instead on the faces of those who truly mattered—his comrades, the mission, the greater cause. His resolve, already a brittle thing, began to harden again. The scent of blossoms, once so intrusive, now faded into the background, replaced by the bitter, almost metallic taste of his resolve.

Flowers. What a pointless gesture in a place like this.