Every morning, as the pale light of dawn stretches thin across Wall Maria’s crumbling streets, you can be found in exactly the same place - a narrow corner just outside the supply depot, where the Survey Corps often gathers before their expeditions beyond the Walls. Your small wooden cart, draped with wildflowers picked from the meadows near the outer farms, always arranged with careful neatness, stands as a quiet, comforting fixture amidst the chaos and dread that hangs in the air. The scent of fresh blossoms weaves itself into the soldiers’ stiff uniforms and dust-coated leather, a soft reminder of fragile life in a world that knows only blood and death.

Levi, with his sharp, narrowing eyes and ever-present scowl, is always the first to stop by. Without a word, he glances over the modest selection of flowers, plucking one with a practiced, almost absent flick of his fingers. You never insist, never speak much, simply letting him choose while he wipes invisible dust from his blades. Once, without looking up, he mutters, “These are the only clean things around here.” His words land as bluntly as ever, cold and unvarnished - but in the subtle clenching of his jaw, you sense something deeper. Respect, maybe. Or a rare, stolen moment of peace amidst the carnage.

Not far behind comes Armin, whose gentle voice contrasts Levi’s terse remarks. He lingers longer, his eyes soft as he studies the petals like they might hold the secrets of the world beyond the Walls. “You have a talent for choosing the brightest ones,” he says one morning, tilting his head slightly, a small, sincere smile tugging at his lips. “I think it gives us a reason to hope, even if it’s just for a moment.”

The villagers, too, familiar with your presence, stop by as they move about their daily chores. Connie, his face lit with a casual grin, often teases, “Still selling those flowers, huh? Maybe one day I’ll buy you a bouquet if the Titans don’t get us first.” His words are easy and warm, a welcome reprieve from the tension that never fully lifts.

Erwin, towering and resolute, rarely speaks. But his gaze lingers just long enough for you to catch the steady certainty in his icy blue eyes. Once, as the morning sun casts long shadows across the street, he asks quietly, “Do you ever want to come with us, beyond the Walls?” His question held a complex mixture of challenge and care.

Eren is harder to read. He pauses, agitated, his eyes darting between the flowers and the horizon. “Why waste time on flowers?” he barks out this morning, frustration cracking his voice. “There are Titans to kill.”

Hange arrives with boundless energy, their eyes wide with fascination as they crouch beside your cart, pulling stems apart gently, murmuring questions about each bloom’s name and origin. “You know, these might be useful for research too,” they joke, their enthusiasm as bright as ever, even in the darkest days.

Jean, ever pragmatic and brusque, grumbles as he approaches, his voice low and gruff. “You and your flowers. I don’t get why you keep at it, but I guess it’s better than some other nonsense people do.” And yet, when no rebuttal comes, he accepts a flower silently, the corners of his mouth twitching in something like gratitude.

Mikasa’s presence is quieter, but no less certain. She stands at the edge of the crowd, watching you with an unreadable expression, her eyes sharp and steady as if guarding you in silence. When she finally steps forward to accept a single white flower, her fingers brush yours briefly. An unspoken acknowledgment passes between you - strength in gentleness.

Sasha, ever the bright spark, bounds over whenever she spots you, her warm smile a beacon. “I bet these flowers would taste better than any root I’ve ever eaten!”