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Mikasa feels it deep in the hollow of her chest—the cold, unshakeable certainty that the next breath her weary lungs pull in will be her last.
It settles over her like a crushing weight, as if an invisible hand presses down, unrelenting, refusing to let her carry on. The world tightens around her, her vision narrowing to a tunnel of dimming light, dark spots creeping in at the edges. But the pain—sharp, unyielding—remains, anchoring her to this fragile, fading moment. Beyond the physical torment, she knows: the end has arrived. And as she hovers on the brink of death, she swears she sees him—Eren—waiting at her side, his presence as familiar as it is final.
Yet through the suffocating fog of her stubborn will to hold onto life, another voice breaks through. It doesn’t belong to the past, but to her present. To her heart.
“Rest, Mom,” her firstborn whispers. “It’s been a long day. It’s time to rest.”
Felix. Of course. Not Eren. Felix, who carries echoes of him in his eyes, but with a softness, a gentleness neither she nor Eren ever had the chance to hold onto. He’s no longer the fragile, swaddled bundle she once cradled against her chest. The boy she raised has faded into memory, and in his place stands a man—strong and so alike his father that it just increases her ache. Or perhaps… ease it, indeed.
“Will you be happy, Felix?” she asks, her voice a rasping whisper, a fanfare to death. “Will you live on, my son? I won’t be here anymore, and I…”
“I’ll live on, Mother,” he says, his voice breaking on the words.
The man beside her is a pillar of strength, a tower of quiet security, yet in his voice, she hears it—the fractures, the uncertainty slipping through the cracks. And she knows them well. They are the same fragile reassurances she once gave Eren so many years ago. The same hollow promises spoken not to soothe the dying but to comfort the ones left behind.
However, she knows well that, in the end, these aren’t just empty promises—they’re truths, hard-won and undeniable. Facts that etched themselves into reality. Because she lived after Eren. When he was gone, it felt as though the world had hollowed out, leaving behind an emptiness that clawed at her soul. The days stretched endlessly, heavy with the absence of his voice, his presence, his warmth. She thought the grief would consume her, that the hole he left behind would swallow her whole.
But she lived.
She lived a long life, just as he had wanted for her. It wasn’t easy, though. The ache of his loss was a constant companion, a shadow that followed her through the years. She continued to love him with a fierce, unwavering devotion, the kind that time couldn’t erode. She continued to want him, to reach out in some moments of the night, half-expecting to find him there beside her. She continued to yearn for him in the fleeting faces of strangers, in the echo of footsteps on familiar streets, in the rustle of leaves that reminded her of his voice.
Yet despite it all, she lived after Eren.
She found joy in the trivial things—the warmth of the sun on her face, the gentle laugh of her son, the simple beauty of a warm morning. She forged new memories, built a life that honoured the love she had lost without being shackled by it. She learnt that grief and life could coexist, that moving forward didn’t mean leaving Eren behind. It meant carrying him with her in every step, in every breath, in every heartbeat.
And now, as she lies on the fragile precipice between life and death, the boundary between the known and the unknown thinning around her, she looks into Felix’s eyes, and she knows.
He will live.
The weight of her absence will settle into his bones, an ache that will gnaw at the edges of his heart. It will bend him, yes—it will carve into him, leaving invisible scars that no one else can see. But it shan’t break him. It shan’t break him because he is her and Eren’s son, and he carries within him the resilience of those who have loved and lost and continued on. The same strength that saw her through the darkest nights will see him through his. Just as she rose from the ashes of her own grief, Felix will find a way to live beyond hers.
The pain will linger, but so will the love. And in that love, he will find the courage to keep going.
Just as she did.
“Can I see the children... just one more time?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper.
“Of course, Mother,” her son replies, rising from his seat. But Mikasa doesn’t release his hand, holding him still. He glances back at her, eyes filled with quiet curiosity. “Is there something else you need?”
“I want to write to your father... just one last time.”
And he nods, a quiet understanding settling over him. “I will get your diary.”
Her grandchildren are old enough to grasp what’s happening, though her great-grandchildren remain blissfully unaware. Still too young to comprehend the finality of death. But Mikasa’s heart swells with love as she watches them all gathered around her, a final, precious moment before she slips away into sleep.
She wonders if Eren would have wanted to see something like this at his end, but the sight is too beautiful to deny, too full of life and warmth to be anything but right.
Each of these people is a precious reminder that her love endured; proof that, even in the end, it was never utterly lost. It comforts Mikasa to know that when she’s gone, there will be those left to tell the story of her and Eren: the girl who never gave up on him and the boy who fought so fiercely for freedom.
“Can you take my ashes to your father’s tree?” Mikasa asks in a soft, fragile voice as the light begins to fade.
Felix looks at her for a long moment, then nods quietly. “Only if you promise me something. Tell him I love him. Even if I don’t remember much about him.”
She smiles faintly, her heart aching. “Oh, sweet boy, he knows. He doesn’t need to hear it from me.”
The man smiles gently, pulling the covers up around her, just as he did when he was little—always sensing, somehow, that she didn’t quite have a good relationship with the chill of the night. Mikasa thinks back to when Eren had shared everything he knew about her with Felix: all her preferences, her comforts and discomforts, everything from her likes to her dislikes. Eren had written it all down in letters, which Felix had kept hidden away until the right moment to reveal them.
It suddenly seems right to her to return the favour. So Mikasa clears her throat softly and says, “I will tell him everything about you. How kind and hard-working you’ve always been. How devoted you are as a son, a husband, and a father. Everything, Felix.”
He shakes his head positively, leaning down to give her a sweet kiss on her cheek, his eyes hidden beneath his bangs, perhaps masking the tears he refuses to shed. “Thank you, Mom,” he murmurs. “For everything. You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met.”
“Thank you, Felix,” she replies, the words thick in her throat. “For giving me a life after your father.”
Felix presses one final kiss to her forehead and steps back to turn off the lights. “Goodnight, Mom. I love you.”
“Goodnight, Felix. We love you,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.
The lights go out, and she prepares to sleep. Mikasa places her diary beside her, its pages filled with letters she never sent, letters that, though they reveal only fragments, speak of the love she has carried for Eren. A love that never faltered, never waned.
Her final letter is a quiet plea—a wish to be with him, to close the distance that death has so cruelly stretched between them.
On the last page, a reflection—a final thought, a farewell that only the heart can understand.
“Death itself is not painful; it is merely the closing of a natural cycle, a transition to whatever comes next, whatever that may be. What truly wears us down and fills us with anguish is the process that accompanies it: the fight against the inevitable, the farewells, the absences that leave our souls empty. Death forces us to face our vulnerability, the fragility of what we love. The pain doesn’t come from death itself but from the fear and love that bind us to what we must let go of. Suffering lies in seeing those we love leave, in the discomfort of knowing that everything valuable has an end.
This world is cruel but beautiful. The beauty of life lies in its impermanence, in the fleeting moments that, though brief, leave a lasting imprint on us. Despite the cruelty of loss, the harshness that teaches us nothing is eternal; life grants us moments of pure wonder. It is in those moments of connection, in the intensity of feelings, in the strength of our bonds, where the beauty that sustains us resides. And although death is always lurking, it is not she who defines our existence, but what we live before her arrival, what we learn, and what we share. Because, in the end, even though this world is cruel, it is also in its cruelty where we find the most beautiful thing: the ability to love, to learn, to be.”
And then, in the stillness of the night, at a time unknown, in an hour unmarked by any clock, she closes her eyes for the last time.
Mikasa opens her eyes.
For a moment, disorientation grips her, as though she has just awoken from a long dream. The weariness that had settled in her bones during her final days is now gone. The heaviness of time and the ache of years that had taken place in her bones are also gone. She blinks, her vision clearing as her hand moves instinctively to her chest. The rhythmic pulse beneath her palm is strong and sure, so full of life, so full of love.
Her fingers curl experimentally, and she marvels. No stiffness, no tremor, no sign of the years that had taken root in her movements. She lifts her hand into the strange, shimmering light and stares at it, her breath catching in her throat. It is not the hand of an old woman, worn thin and wrinkled like a grape raisin. These hands are young, unscarred, filled with strength and promise.
She lowers them slowly, unease giving way to awe as her eyes take in her surroundings. The air seems alive, the place glowing with a soft, otherworldly light that comes from everywhere and nowhere at once. Hues of blue blend into streaks of gold, laced with a faint shimmer of white, like sunlight on rippling water. The ground beneath her feet is firm, yet its surface defies understanding—neither earth nor sky, but something in between. There is no horizon, no clear edges to define this place, only an endless expanse of light and colour stretching infinitely in all directions that see no end.
Her breath hitches. Is this… death?
It must be. What else could this be?
The memories come suddenly, vivid, and sharp, like verses of a song she has sung a thousand times before. The quiet stillness of her room, the muffled murmurs of her grandchildren echoing just beyond the walls. She remembers lying in bed, clutching a photograph in trembling hands, the image of him weathered but cherished, his face so familiar it hurt. It had been her anchor, her talisman, her charm—the last thing she held onto as her breath slipped away from her weary lungs.
She had been ready then. Ready to surrender, to let go of the life she had built after him. A life he would have wanted for her—filled with love, with children and grandchildren, with memories that honoured his spirit even in his absence. It had been enough. She had told herself so over and over and over and over as her vision obscured.
And now... here she is.
The afterlife, perhaps. It has to be.
She stands now, whole, and unburdened. Her body feels unfamiliar yet deeply hers, a forgotten echo of a self she had left behind long ago. She looks down at her hands, smooth and unblemished, and then at her reflection in the shimmering expanse below her feet. What stares back is a younger version of herself—untouched by time, radiant with the vitality of youth.
A bittersweet pang stirs within her chest, caught somewhere between joy and longing. She presses a hand to her heart, as if to steady it, and takes a hesitant step forward. The light around her shifts in response, glowing brighter, warmer, and more welcoming. She is fifteen again, or maybe sixteen, or maybe she is the age she was when the love of her life died. She can’t quite know. But she knows this: she is no more than ninety years old, and her hair is no longer grey, and there is life in her body again—a warmth that pulses in her veins, a strength that she hasn’t felt in so long it almost feels foreign.
Then she feels it.
A presence.
It’s faint at first, like a whisper carried on the wind, but it grows stronger with every breath she takes. It isn’t a sound or a voice but a feeling, so familiar it makes her ache, so warm it makes her tear up. It wraps around her like the scent of home, the warmth of a long-forgotten embrace. A quiet, irresistible pull tugs at her soul, as though something in this place is urging her to turn.
And so she does.
Her breath catches when she sees him atop a hill. He’s standing there, just as she remembers him—hair slightly messy, eyes burning with that same intensity and restless longing that never really disappeared. Countless times she had seen him like this, in her nightly dreams, when her tears had lulled her to sleep.
“Eren.”
The name slips from her lips, barely louder than a whisper but heavy enough to shatter the silence. She never dared to imagine this moment could come. For 25,580 days, he had existed only in the spaces between her memories and the ache in her chest. His absence had been a shadow she had learnt to carry, a story she clung to in the darkest moments.
But now he’s here, solid, and undeniable, as real, and unyielding as the earth beneath her feet.
“Eren…” His name escapes her, raw and steeped in a hope so sharp it stings.
And she runs. She runs towards him just as he does towards her. Reckless tears blur her vision, each drop a sting that obscures the path before her. But it doesn’t matter. She knows the way. It’s an instinct, a rhythm etched deep within her, a habit forged through a lifetime of loving him and him only. Her heart knows where her lover is.
“I’m here!” he yells. “I waited for you, Mikasa!”
Tears gather at the corners of her eyes, blurring the world into a radiant, fragile haze. The fresh and sharp air catches in her throat, making it hard to breathe. But that sensation is fleeting. With him back after years of absence, Mikasa feels the impossible—she can finally breathe.
“Oh, Eren,” she whispers, her voice laced with a hope she thought she’d lost.
And before she can even blink, before his footsteps even reach her ears, Eren is holding her. The man she loves, the one she cherishes above all, wraps her in his arms as if no time had passed. It’s the same as it’s always been—protective, serene, alive with an intensity that makes everything else fade away.
“Oh, Eren,” she repeats, her arms tightening around him as if she never wants to let go, as if she could hold him forever and never face the world without him again. “I missed you so much,” she says, her voice breaking. “I missed you so, so, so, so much.”
His arms tighten around her, as if he, too, fears this might be a dream that will slip away. He presses his face into her hair, inhaling the scent of her.
“Welcome home, my love,” he says. “I missed you more than I thought I could bear.”
“You waited for me,” she chokes out, her voice breaking as tears stream down her face, carving paths she never thought she’d see again.
“I told you I would. I’ve been waiting for so long.”
She pulls back just enough to see him, to take him in, to make sure he’s real and not a dream, and her hands find their way to his face. Her fingers tremble as they trace the strong lines of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbones, and the unyielding, familiar shape of his lips. “You look exactly the same…”
“And you’re just as beautiful,” he says, a hint of a smile playing on his lips as his eyes search hers, looking for the truth in the depths of her gaze. “Maybe more.”
Mikasa’s laughter spills out, raw and broken, a sound she hasn’t heard in years, not since the world lost its colour. “I’m old, Eren. I—”
“You’re not,” he interrupts, his thumb sweeping away a tear that trembles down her cheek. The touch is both a promise and a plea. “Not here. Not now.”
She rests her forehead against his, eyes fluttering shut as she breathes him in, the warmth of him anchoring her, steadying her in this impossible moment. Her hands cling to the fabric of his shirt, the sensation of him grounding her fears that he might disappear. “I missed you. Every single day, I missed you so much.” The confession stutters out, a hiccup cracking her voice as she buries her face against his chest. “It was so hard without you, Eren. I thought I wouldn’t make it. I thought... I thought I would die.”
He tightens his hold on her, his eyes glistening as he listens, as if memorising her pain to carry it for both of them. “I know. I’ve seen it all. I know it all too well.” His hands cradle her face, tender and reverent, the sorrow in his eyes a quiet storm. “But hey—” His lips lifted with a slight smile. “—you did very well, didn’t you? My brave girl. You had a long life.”
Mikasa nods, tears falling freely now, tracing paths down her cheeks, once weathered and worn by years of loss, now smooth and radiant as peach blossoms in the heart of spring. “I had to. I promised you I’d take care of our son. Remember?”
The smile that breaks across his face is like the first sunlight after a long winter. He leans in and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead, a touch that speaks of all the words neither of them could say. “Yes, I remember. And he’s grown into such a good boy, Mikasa. You did it; you did so well.”
A shadow passes over her face. “Maybe our Felix would have been better if he had you.” She looks up at him, eyes searching for any sign of a response. His gaze meets hers, still vivid, still alive, even in the shadow of their shared grief, even after the memories of his last moments under that old, twisted tree. “But it couldn’t be helped, could it?”
He shakes his head in slow motion. “It was all written in stone,” he says. “No matter what path we took back then, it was always going to end with me dying and you living a long life without me.”
A painful hiccup escapes her, and her chest tightens as reality settles in. They had been doomed long before their lives had crossed, long before promises and dreams and whispered secrets. It was a cruel fate, one she can’t deny, but hearing it spoken aloud makes it sharper, more raw than she ever imagined.
“But we did what we could, didn’t we?” His voice softens as he searches her eyes, pleading for her to understand and to forgive them both.
“We did what we could,” she repeats. She knows, as much as he does, that nothing could be undone. Everything had happened for a reason, even the pain, the tragedy, the tears, the heartache, and the choices that led them here.
And now, here they are, standing on the edge of something that felt like both an ending and a beginning.
“Now we have a new opportunity, Mikasa,” he says, breaking her gloomy thoughts.
“A new opportunity?” She echoes, looking at him, still entangled in his arms.
Eren’s fingers brush her cheek, a touch so tender it felt like a promise. “We can live a long life here. Watch our son and grandchildren grow up, and then cross over to the other side, where another life awaits us.” He pauses, his gaze lingering on her face as if searching for something—a decision or an understanding. “Or we can cross over now and start another life. Sure, it’ll take us a while to find each other again, but I know we will. We always have.”
Her chest tightens. To stay means holding on to the life they fought for, to watch their legacy unfold. But to leave means embracing the unknown, a leap of faith into the vast expanse of eternity.
“I’m scared, Eren,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “What if we lose each other again? What if this is just another goodbye?”
His hands find hers, strong and unwavering. “We won’t lose each other. We never have. No matter where we go, no matter how many lives we live, we’ll always find our way back to one another. I promise you that.”
Mikasa holds his gaze, the offer so simple, so impossible, and yet, in the depth of his eyes, she sees the truth of it. The truth is that no matter where they were, no matter what world they lived in, they would always find their way back to one another.
“I like that,” she says, a soft smile blooming on her lips. “And both are good choices.”
“So, what do you decide?” he asks, his voice gentle, like he’s afraid the answer might shatter this fragile thing they’ve reclaimed.
She takes a deep breath. She’s already made her choice, and she knows it without hesitation.
“I’ve been a long time without you; twenty-five thousand five hundred and eighty days without you.” She reaches for him, her fingers trembling as they trace the lines of his jaw, the familiar strength of him grounding her. “I think I want to be with you for a moment of this eternity until we meet again.”
Eren’s eyes shine, not with regret but with a love so fierce it feels like it could outlast time itself. He brings her close, pressing his lips to her forehead—a touch that is reverent and enduring.
“Then we’ll stay here… For a while, of course.” His forehead presses gently against hers, his breath warm and steady as it mingles with hers. “It’s a good decision. I want you to tell me everything.”
“Everything?”
“Everything,” he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles. “Tell me about the days you spent without me, the moments that kept you going. Tell me about our son, the life you built, and the dreams you had when you thought I was lost.”
Mikasa’s chest tightens at the thought of recounting years of solitude and longing, but there’s a warmth in Eren’s presence that makes it feel safe.
“I’ll tell you everything, Eren. All of it.”
So, with her heart laid bare and their souls entwined once more, Mikasa finally knows—when it comes to Eren, there is no such thing as goodbye.
And the flowers they once grew still bloom, untouched by time—everlasting, like their love.
Fanart by That Fokuro
