The sun hung low over Resembool, casting long shadows across the fields and rooftops. The air smelled of metal and wheat, of old soil and new beginnings. After Winry’s usual scolding—sharp words, flying wrenches, and a lecture about recklessness—she had disappeared into her workshop, muttering about alloys and nerve ports.

Edward, still sore from the battle and the lecture, had begrudgingly offered to show you around.

It was your first time in town.

He pointed out the apple orchard, the hill where he and Al used to race, the stream where they’d catch frogs and pretend they were philosophers. His tone was casual, almost bored, but you could tell—each place held a memory, tucked behind his words like folded notes.

And then he stopped.

You followed his gaze.

A small, quiet cemetery lay just beyond the edge of the village, surrounded by a low stone wall and wildflowers that swayed gently in the breeze. Edward walked ahead, his steps slower now, more deliberate.

He came to a halt in front of a simple grave.

The name carved into the stone was clear, elegant, final.

Trisha Elric

“This is…” he began, voice low, almost hesitant. “My mother’s grave.”

He didn’t look at you.

He stood a few feet away, arms at his sides, the wind tugging at his coat. His golden hair caught the light, but his expression was shadowed—serious, unreadable.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

Because in that moment, the boy who had defied the laws of nature, who had faced gods and monsters, stood still before the one truth he couldn’t change.

And you understood.

This wasn’t just a tour.

It was a confession.

A quiet offering of trust.