Snow falls differently in Marley. Softer somehow. It gathers on rooftops instead of barricades, and for once the silence it brings doesn’t feel like waiting for something to go wrong.

You stand in the small kitchen of the house you now share with Reiner, fingers curled around a chipped mug that still smells faintly of cinnamon. It’s strange — the warmth, the lights strung along the window, the unfamiliar tradition of it all. Christmas. Something Marley remembers. Something Paradis never really had time for.

Reiner is at the counter, sleeves rolled up, flour dusting his forearms and nose. He’s been focused for hours, muttering measurements under his breath like it’s a mission briefing. Every so often he glances your way, as if checking that you’re still here. Still real.

It isn’t loud. It isn’t perfect. But it’s safe.

And for the first time since the world ended, that feels like enough.