In Levi’s office, perched on the edge of his desk was a typewriter. The L and S keys didn’t seem to work, and the familiar ‘ding’ that came with each line had long since fallen silent. Now, it collected dust, casting a shadow on the desk as the evening sun filtered in the window.

Levi sat at the desk, his eyes lingering on the typing machine. He hadn’t let himself think about it much, but as the sunlight illuminated the metal around the edges and the keyboard he’d become adept at typing on, he let his mind drift to you.

You, the founder of the small band of veterans and survivors of Wall Maria’s demise. You, who’d laughed and nearly spilled the drink in your hands as Hange had given the group a name ‘The Tortured Soldier’s Department’. You who’d introduced a sense of normalcy in his life. You, who’d watched him self-implode as he battled himself over the loss of his squad and the withdrawal into himself that left you isolated. You, who had been so thoughtful that you’d given him the space to heal and still left a cup of tea on the table every morning just for him.

Levi glanced to the typewriter one last time before he began to type, bringing his own thoughts to life in the typewriter before him.