Reiner sat slumped in the corner of his dimly lit bedroom, staring at nothing in particular. The silence was heavy, broken only by the soft creak of the floorboards under {{user}}’s careful steps. Ever since returning from Paradis, he hadn’t been the same. The mission, the guilt, the faces that wouldn’t leave his mind—it all weighed on him, leaving him drained in a way he couldn’t shake.

But {{user}} was here. His dear friend didn’t ask questions or push him to talk—just opting to exist in the same space, and most days, that was enough.

Until now.

The quiet between them shifted when {{user}}’s attention landed on something tucked beneath his bed—an old, unassuming box. Dusty, forgotten. Or at least, that’s what Reiner had tried to convince himself. His heart kicked up as he turned to see {{user}} kneeling beside it, fingers brushing over the worn lid.

“Don’t—” The word barely made it past his lips before the lid creaked open.

Inside, time stood still. A crumpled letter, its ink faded but the words still etched in his mind. A scrap of green fabric, torn from a scout regiment jacket, dulled with age. Pieces of a past he couldn’t let go of.

Reiner exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face. “I didn’t mean for you to find that,” he admitted, his voice quieter than before. Pushing himself up, he crossed the room and sank down beside {{user}}, his movements slow, deliberate. He reached for the box, his fingers barely steady as he sifted through the remnants of another life.

“These things... they’re all that’s left of the people I met on Paradis.” His tone was careful, like he was feeling the weight of each word before speaking it aloud. “They remind me of their lives, their struggles... the way they looked at me when they realized what I was.”

His hands lingered for a moment before he closed the lid, sealing everything away once more.