Archive of Our Own ^beta

Highschool- 2009

Levi Ackerman liked silence. He liked the clean sound of pages flipping. The distant hum of wind through dry branches. The gravel crunch of footsteps that didn’t come too close. And the far-off chatter of students… if they stayed far enough.

So he wasn’t particularly thrilled when a shadow fell over his paperback.

He looked up, slowly, eyes narrowed beneath thick lashes. She was… a mess.

Brown hair in a frizzed halo of disobedient curls. Glasses slightly crooked, one arm taped. Socks that didn’t match, one blue with comets, one with cartoon bacteria. She was clutching a lunch tray and squinting like a scientist evaluating a specimen.

“You’re in my seat,” she said. Her voice was bright, like a cracked bell. Not mean. Not teasing. Just… confident. Certain.

Levi blinked. His voice, when it came, was flat. “There are five empty benches.”

“I know. But this one is optimal.” She stepped closer, balancing on one foot like a flamingo, pointing to the spot next to him.

“I did a mini-study. This spot gets full shade from the oak at 12:04 exactly. There’s consistent airflow, see how the leaves rustle east to west? Minimal humidity. Ants avoid the path because there’s eucalyptus nearby.”

Levi stared. “It’s a seat.”

“It’s THE perfect seat,” she corrected. “And you’re occupying 83.2% of it.”

He said nothing.

She shifted her tray to one hand and held out a plastic container with ominously green noodles. “I’ll share my wasabi spirulina soba if you scooch.”

He scooted two inches. Barely. Just enough. She flopped down beside him with a satisfied hum, pried off the lid with a pop, and shoved a twirl of noodles into her mouth.

“I’m Hange. Hange Zoe,” she said, talking around her food. “You don’t talk much, huh?”

“No.”

“That’s fine. I talk enough for both of us.”

Levi turned back to his book, but didn’t flip the page. He could feel her presence buzzing beside him, a storm in human form.

“What are you reading?”

He held the cover up without a word. Dostoevsky.

“Oof. Heavy.”

“Mm.”

“I like Kafka better,” she said. “More bugs.”

Levi let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. Just a ghost of one.

They ate like that in silence, her slurping noodles with abandon, him reading the same paragraph five times.

When the bell rang, she stood and brushed off her skirt. She didn’t look at him when she said, “See you tomorrow, Levi.”

He hadn’t told her his name. She walked off, half-hopping, nearly tripping over her own backpack strap. Levi sat there long after the courtyard emptied, staring at the empty space beside him. Her presence still clung to the air.

He wasn’t annoyed. Not even close.

Levi kept his hands in his pockets, bag slung over one shoulder. He wasn’t in a rush, but he always walked with purpose with his sharp strides, eyes down, don’t engage. Except… Hange didn’t walk like that. She walked backwards. Facing him. Flapping her arms occasionally to balance, as she spoke at lightning speed.

“Did you know there’s this strain of bacteria that can literally digest PET plastic? Like the stuff they make water bottles from? Isn’t that amazing? We might’ve accidentally made our own cleanup crew.”

Levi blinked. “Accidentally?”

“Well, I mean… evolution’s kinda chaotic like that. Trial and error, baby.”

She almost tripped over a rock. Levi instinctively reached out, steadying her elbow. She grinned at him like he’d just handed her the Nobel Prize.

“See? Symbiosis.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t let go right away.

***

The teacher’s voice droned on about angles and proofs. Levi tapped his mechanical pencil against his notebook, fast and steady. Hange slid into the seat beside him at the last possible second, hair damp from the rain, backpack half-zipped. She looked like a tornado in human form.

She pulled out her pencil case, opened it—empty. “Damn it. I swear I packed—”

Before she could finish, Levi slid his pencil across the desk toward her without looking up. She blinked. “Wait—seriously?”

He kept writing with his backup pen. She mouthed a dramatic “I owe you my life”, then saluted him with the pencil like it was a sacred sword.

He didn’t look, but a small tug pulled at the corner of his mouth.

***

They sat across from each other. Textbooks open. Pencils scratching. Levi read quietly, focused. Hange, on the other hand, had started the session full of energy, scribbling notes about viruses that use hijacked DNA, muttering excitedly to herself.

But now?

Now she was face-down on her open book, snoring softly. Her glasses were askew, one lens fogging with every breath. A bit of drool pooled near her vocabulary list.

Levi stared for a long moment. Then, with precise fingers, he reached forward and carefully slid her notes out from under her face. He folded a napkin and placed it beside her cheek. When her glasses started to slip, he pushed them back up the bridge of her nose.

He returned to his book like nothing had happened. But his hand stayed close, just in case she tilted too far and fell off the chair.

***

The storm came in fast, fat raindrops pelting the pavement, thunder echoing overhead. Students scattered toward buses and awnings. Levi stood under a covered walkway, arms folded, watching clouds roll like a fist above the buildings.

Then, a blur of motion. Wet hair. Wide eyes. Hange appeared beside him, soaked to the bone, gripping his arm like a life raft.

“I hate thunder.”

He looked down at her, startled. She wasn’t smiling. Not her usual chaos. Just trembling slightly, mascara smudged near her lashes, her other hand fisting the fabric of her skirt.

Then she looked up at him. “I think you’re like lightning.”

He blinked.

“Loud,” she said. “But rare. The kind of thing you never forget once it hits.”

He didn’t know what to say. So he just handed her his jacket.

***

They sat in their usual seats, Levi against the wall, Hange in the middle, already doodling on the edge of her worksheet. The teacher droned about kinetic energy. Levi’s fingers tapped nervously on his desk. He’d rewritten the note three times before deciding to just do it.

He slid the folded paper across her desk.

And Hange opened it with zero subtlety.

Inside, written in stiff, sharp handwriting:

I like you. You’re annoying. But I like you.

—L

She froze. Then looked at him, eyes round behind her fogged-up glasses. A beat of silence. Then, she beamed.

Her whole face lit up, like the damn sun had cracked through the windows just for her. Her smile crinkled her cheeks, her glasses steamed from how hard she was breathing, and she mouthed, “Took you long enough.”

Levi pretended to keep writing. But his ears were pink for the rest of the day.

University - 2014

The wind smelled like dry leaves and burnt espresso. It was the kind of cold that kissed your fingertips before you noticed it, subtle and creeping not sharp enough for a jacket, but enough to make the tip of your nose pink if you sat still too long. Which Levi was doing now.

He sat cross-legged on a worn-out blanket they'd stolen from the clubroom months ago. Threadbare tartan, stained in one corner with what he hoped was coffee. His mug, chipped and black, steamed faintly in his hands. From here, the whole campus stretched below them, the library’s tall windows glowing gold, students milling like ants between the pathways, autumn trees rustling in low conversation.

And beside him was Hange.

Perched right at the edge, knees drawn up, chin tilted to the stars. She always looked like she was in motion, even when standing still with her hair windblown and wild, sleeves rolled to the elbows, lab coat flapping like a cape behind her. She hadn’t said anything in five minutes. Not unusual. She got like this after a good discovery or a bad one. Or sometimes just because the stars looked right.

He didn’t rush her.

Then she said it. Soft. Like she was telling a secret she hadn’t quite finished processing yet.

“I got accepted into the Xenobiotics Research Fellowship.”

Levi blinked.

Hange kept staring at the sky like she didn’t trust herself to look at him. “It’s in Mitras. Full scholarship. Big lab. Big names. Real clinical access. We’d be working with synthetic stem strains, actual post-gen recombinants—”

She cut herself off. Exhaled. Her voice was trembling not from fear, but from trying not to explode with excitement.

“It’s everything I wanted, Levi. Everything.” The wind picked up, tugging a curl of her hair across her face. She brushed it away, finally glancing sideways.

He was staring at his coffee like it had told him something important. A long pause.

She waited for the protest. The tension. Maybe a “you’re leaving?” Or even a “when were you going to tell me?”

Instead, “Then I’m coming with you.”

Silence.

She turned sharply, almost spilling her mug. “Levi…”

He met her eyes. Calm. Sure. Steady in the way only Levi could be, like someone who had made the decision hours ago and just waited for her to finish speaking. “I’ll figure something out,” he said. “Find a job. You do science. I’ll do the rest.”

She laughed, but it came out wet and cracked. “You don’t even like Mitras. You said it smells like piss—”

“It does,” he said simply. “But that’s where your lab is.”

Her mouth opened, then closed. Her eyes brimmed. “Are you sure?” she whispered. “It’s not what you planned. You had goals. Your uncle—”

He didn’t flinch. “You’re what I planned.”

That broke her. The mug thudded softly against the rooftop as she set it down and crawled across the blanket into his lap. She kissed him before she could cry, fast, grateful, trembling. Her hands framed his face, thumbs cold against his cheekbones. He didn’t say much, as always. Just wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in close.

When she finally pulled back, her forehead resting against his, she whispered, “You’re gonna get sick of me.”

Levi looked at her. “Never.”

And in that moment, under the stars, with the wind whistling around them and the whole world about to shift and she believed him.

It was tiny. The kind of place you only see in movies about broke geniuses or disasters waiting to happen. The tiles in the bathroom cracked if you stepped too hard. The kitchen sink coughed when you turned it on. The walls were the color of forgotten mustard, and the landlord was a ghost who only existed in text messages.

But it was theirs.

Stacks of paper leaned like exhausted towers on every surface. Research notes, unpaid bills, pizza flyers, Levi’s crossword puzzles. There was only one table that was Hange’s “lab desk” by day and their dining space by night. The couch had springs that squeaked when you breathed.

And in the middle of the chaos, Levi, standing in the galley kitchen.

He cooked like it was a battle, he measured, precise, silent. A pan sizzled with garlic. The light above the stove flickered weakly, painting half his face in shadow.

Behind him, Hange danced.

Still in her lab coat, goggles pushed into her hair, she spun on socked feet to a song she’d made up on the spot something about recombinant DNA and love being like thermal stability. Her voice cracked. She was off-beat. She grabbed a spatula and used it as a microphone.

“You’re gonna set the place on fire,” Levi muttered, not even looking up.

“Then we’ll discover if your stir-fry survives high temperatures,” she grinned, grabbing his arm and twirling under it like they were at a wedding and not on cracked linoleum.

He sighed, but his lip twitched.

They never made it to bed that night.

Hange’s hair was still damp from her shower, her glasses hanging from one ear. She was snoring softly, mouth open, arm draped across Levi’s stomach like a loose seatbelt. Her legs tangled with his on the too-short couch.

The TV buzzed faintly in the background. Some documentary about extinct birds.

Levi didn’t move. Just stared at the ceiling and let her weight ground him. His fingers absently traced circles on her shoulder. He didn’t say much.

But if you listened closely, if the world went completely still, you might’ve heard him exhale like he was home.

***

She was in her element. The university lab had terrible acoustics and worse lighting. But Hange made it feel like a concert hall. Her hands moved like conductors, eyes blazing behind her foggy glasses as she explained recombinant synthesis to a group of half-awake undergrads.

Levi stood in the doorway, arms crossed, invisible in the shadows.

She didn’t notice him. She never did when she got like this, alive, electric, herself. He could’ve stood there forever, watching the person she became when she talked about what she loved.

She used too many hand gestures. She knocked over a beaker. She laughed too loud at her own joke.

He didn’t smile. But his eyes were soft.

And soon she graduated and was officially titled Doctor. He followed her so she could achieve her dreams and yet they had more to cross off their bucket list and this was just the beginning. 

***

There was no ring. No fancy dinner, no camera phones, no grand gesture. Just their bed.

Rain tapped against the windows. The sheets tangled around their legs. The lamp beside them buzzed faintly.

Levi lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. Hange curled beside him, her fingers tracing circles on his chest.

She didn’t say "marry me." Not directly.

“Let’s stay like this,” she murmured. “Forever.”

He turned his head, met her eyes in the dark.

“Even if we have nothing?” she added, quieter this time. “Even if we only have cheap coffee and science jokes and each other… you’ll still be here?”

There was no hesitation in him. “I’ll be there,” he said. “Always, my four-eyed doctor.”

She didn’t cry. Not then.

But later, when he fell asleep with his arm around her, she pressed her nose to his neck and whispered into his skin like a vow, “Always, my adorable little shortie.”

***

A small botanical garden tucked away in the outskirts of the city. Late afternoon sunlight filters through the trees like spun gold. The chairs are mismatched, rented last-minute. The aisle is uneven. The flowers wete wild, vibrant, a little too chaotic because they were arranged by Hange herself and Sasha, who was now sneezing in the back row.

But none of it mattered. Because when Levi turned to face the stone path and saw Hange walking toward him in that off-white tea-length dress she’d found at a thrift store, with her lab goggles pushed up into her messy bun like a crown, his world went silent.

Her smile could’ve split the clouds.

She waved to him halfway down the aisle and tripped on a stone. Mike reached out instinctively, but she laughed it off with a sheepish shrug.

Erwin, dressed too sharply as usual, stood in front of them with a worn book in hand, officiating with the same voice he used in lectures, though even he looked a little teary.

The guest list was short.

Petra. Moblit. Marie. Sasha, Connie, and Jean arguing over cake flavors at the back. Isabel and Furlan. Even his uncle. A few distant cousins. That one professor who always called Hange “young chaos.”

They sat close, tight-knit like a village. Not many, but enough. Enough to make it real.

Hange's hands trembled slightly as she held Levi’s, fingers ink-stained and calloused from both pipettes and pens.

“Levi,” she began, laughing nervously. “You… you taught me patience. Not by being patient but by testing mine. Daily. Constantly.”

Everyone chuckled. Levi rolled his eyes, gently.

“But also… you stayed. You stayed through my explosions. Through the time I brought mold into the fridge because I thought it might be intelligent.”

A collective groan from the audience.

“Through my breakdowns, through late nights, through quiet mornings. You are my grounding wire. My constant.”

She smiled, the kind that made her eyes crinkle.

“If life is entropy, then you are my order. My always.”

She squeezed his hands. “So I promise to keep choosing you. Even when I forget to pay the gas bill. Even when I’m distracted by a bacterium under the microscope. Even if we lose everything, I’ll still find you.”

Levi didn’t speak immediately. He never did. When he finally did, his voice was steady. Quiet. Almost like wind through leaves.

“You talk too much.”

Laughter rippled through the garden.

“But it’s how I always know you’re here. Even when it’s unbearable.”

He looked down, then back at her. “I’m not good with words. Never have been.”

“But you make me want to try.”

“You gave my life noise. Color. You made the air warmer.”

“So I’ll stay. Even when I don’t say it. Even when I’m grumpy. Even if we lose the apartment again or your experiments invade the living room.”

A pause.

“You’ll still have me. And you taught me how to love and keep living. I promise to love you till the end because your happiness is always mine.”

They kiss.

It’s awkward at first, she nearly knocks his boutonniere off but it’s real. Levi’s hand curls at her waist. She buries her nose in his shirt and whispers something about microbes on his collar.

The audience applauds, loud and messy and full of love.

There’s no ballroom. Just picnic tables, twinkle lights, and mismatched chairs. Jean plays something vaguely romantic on an out-of-tune keyboard. The cake is lopsided as Sasha accidentally sat on one tier. Moblit made a speech but dropped his cue cards in a pond.

Levi and Hange dance barefoot in the grass. She steps on his feet twice. He doesn’t even flinch. Later, as the stars peek out and everyone’s too full on lemon tarts and bad beer, Hange rests her head on Levi’s shoulder.

“Married,” she whispers, like she still can’t believe it.

“Yeah.”

“Still sure?”

He pulls her closer. “Still sure.”

2019

A small, sterile exam room. The walls are a dull, choking white. The only sound is the low beep of the fetal monitor and the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. The air smells like antiseptic and fear.

Hange’s hand grips Levi’s, tighter than she ever has before. The monitor beside them flickers with the blurred black-and-white swirl of life—tiny, fluttering. That faint, rhythmic thump-thump-thump pulses like a distant war drum.

The doctor sighs. It’s the kind of sigh you brace for.

“Your blood pressure is unstable,” she says. “And your hormone levels are rejecting the progesterone support. The risk is escalating.”

Levi’s back stiffens. Hange doesn’t move.

“What does that mean?” he asks, voice already laced with alarm.

“It means your body is treating the pregnancy as a threat,” the doctor continues carefully. “If it continues this way… we’re looking at the possibility of severe hemorrhaging. Potential organ failure. And yes… death.”

The word lingers, sharp and metallic. Death. Like it had been waiting just outside the door, invited in now by cold, clinical honesty.

Levi’s hand jerks in Hange’s, as if he’s just been burned. His breath catches. Hange doesn’t flinch.

“We can terminate safely,” the doctor says, voice too soft to be real. “You still have time. But if you continue…”

The rest doesn’t need saying.

Later. In their car. The inside of the vehicle feels like a coffin. Windows up. Engine off. Only the sound of the outside world buzzing distantly, passing traffic, muffled birds, the crunch of gravel under tires.

Hange sits in the passenger seat, motionless, eyes forward. Her hands are resting in her lap like they don’t know what to do. Her chest rises slowly, deeply. Not crying. Not yet.

Levi grips the steering wheel like it’s a lifeline, knuckles bone-white. His breathing is uneven. His voice is rough when it finally comes.

“You want to go through with this?” he asks.

His throat closes around the words like they betray him.

She turns to look at him, and even in this lighting, he can see it, the steadiness. Not naivety. Not denial. Just… certainty.

“Yes,” she says.

“Why?”

There’s a pause. A moment where the world shrinks down to the heartbeat they had seen on the screen.

“Because when I saw that ultrasound,” she whispers, “I saw us.”

“Not just me. Not just a baby. I saw everything. What we’ve survived. What we’ve loved. What we’ve built.”

“She’s real, Levi. She’s our miracle.”

“Even if I don’t get to raise her… even if I only have one minute to hold her—I want to meet her. Just once. I want to know that I chose her.”

Levi’s jaw is clenched so tight it hurts. His chest burns. Not from anger, but from the impossible scale of it all. The weight. The fucking terror of it.

“You’re being reckless,” he mutters.

“I’m being a mother.” Her voice doesn’t waver. That’s what breaks him.

The silence that follows is loud enough to split the car in two.

Levi looks down at his hands. His calloused fingers. The ones that know how to fix things, lift things, fight but not save her. Not this time. His hand reaches out. Finds hers. Trembles when it closes around her palm.

“Your happiness is mine,” he says, barely above a whisper. “So if this makes you happy… I’ll protect it.” He doesn’t cry. Not yet.

But the storm begins in his chest. He wasn't ready to lose her but her happiness had always been his priority. But for the first time in his life he was scared.

The apartment was quiet except for the soft flipping of pages and the distant hum of the city that never truly slept.

Levi sat cross-legged on the worn-out couch, a thick, pastel-colored baby book splayed open across his knees. The words were dense medical jargon, growth charts, and care instructions but he read them with the solemnity of a man preparing for battle.

His eyes were tired, edges rimmed red, but he kept going, underlining sentences with a pencil he’d borrowed from Hange’s collection.

He paused, tracing the line that described fetal development at twenty weeks. His fingers tightened on the page, imagining the tiny life inside Hange moving, growing.

Outside, the streetlights flickered like slow pulsebeats, and Levi whispered to the quiet room,

“Stay safe… please.”

***

The kitchen was a battleground. Levi stood at the ironing board, a half-serious frown on his face as he pressed one of the smallest onesies he’d ever seen. The fabric was soft, pale yellow, with a faded little bear stitched onto the front.

Behind him, the bathroom door opened and closed rapidly, accompanied by the unmistakable sounds of morning sickness.

“Kill me,” Hange groaned, leaning against the sink, eyes shut tight. Her hair was damp, clinging to her forehead.

Levi’s jaw twitched. He wanted to be irritated but found himself strangely fond of her frailty. This was their new normal.

He called over his shoulder, voice gentle, “Hold on, I’ve got this.”

He straightened the onesie one last time and then crossed the kitchen to where she stood. She reached out, gripping his arm weakly, and he squeezed back.

***

Later that afternoon, Levi found her asleep on the couch. The pale light through the window caught the soft curve of her belly, a perfect, round promise of their daughter.

Hange’s breathing was slow and even. Her head rested on a pile of mismatched cushions, one hand lightly draped over her stomach. Levi sat beside her, careful not to disturb, and rested his hand on her belly.

A flutter. A gentle, rhythmic kick. His fingers twitched involuntarily.

A smile, soft, almost disbelieving crossed his face. “Hey, little one,” he whispered. “You’re strong. You’re our miracle.”

***

The nursery was a work in progress. Levi had insisted on painting the walls himself. The result was… imperfect. Splotches of bright yellow streaked unevenly across the plaster, edges blurred and rough.

But to him, it was perfect.

The room smelled faintly of fresh paint, new wood, and hope. A small crib sat assembled in the corner, its white finish chipped in one spot where Levi had dropped a hammer earlier.

On the floor, stacks of baby clothes lay folded haphazardly, waiting for the day they would be filled. Hange peeked into the room, her tired smile shining. “You did this all by yourself,” she said softly.

He shrugged, pride and vulnerability tangled in his expression. “Had to be right for her.”

***

The sterile clinic was cold and bright. Hange sat on the examination table, legs swinging nervously. Levi stood beside her, fingers intertwined tightly with hers.

Her eyes locked onto his as the doctor prepared the ultrasound machine.

With a steady breath, she whispered, “We’ll be okay.” Her voice was small but fierce, carrying a determination that steadied them both.

“She’s worth it.”

Levi nodded, squeezing her hand back, “We’ll protect her. Together.”

And in that moment, amidst the sterile walls and uncertain futures, they found strength.

The sterile smell of the hospital was sharp and unyielding. The walls echoed with the steady beep of monitors and hurried footsteps.

Levi sat rigid in the corner of the delivery room, his hands clenched into fists on his knees. His eyes were fixed on Hange’s pale face, drenched in sweat, knuckles white as she gripped the hospital sheets.

Her breathing was ragged, uneven like she was fighting two battles at once: one to bring their daughter into the world, and one to hold onto life itself.

Suddenly, the room shifted. The doctors’ voices grew frantic, their movements sharper, more urgent. “We’re losing her—prepare for hemorrhage control!”

Levi’s heart stopped. He lunged forward as a nurse tried to take Hange’s hand, but her fingers went limp in the sudden surge of blood loss. “No! Don’t touch her hand!” Levi shouted, voice breaking. His eyes were wild, desperate. “Hold on, Hange! Fight! Don’t leave me—don’t leave us!”

Time fractured. Minutes blurred into eternity. The beeping became uneven, faster, slower, then a terrifying silence.

Levi sank to his knees, breath ragged, hands trembling uncontrollably. And then, after what felt like a lifetime—

A cry. A small, sharp, fierce cry.

Levi looked up, and there she was. Their daughter. Tiny, wrinkled, and alive. He barely registered the nurses wiping her clean or wrapping her in a blanket. All he could see was the fragile life in his trembling arms.

His hands shook violently as he cradled her against his chest. “Welcome to the world, little miracle,” he whispered, tears stinging his eyes. His voice cracked. “I’m here. I’m here.”

Hange’s tired eyes met his, a weak smile brushing her lips. “You did it,” she breathed.

Levi’s body convulsed with silent sobs, overwhelmed by the weight of what they’d just survived. “No, you did it.”

For the first time in years, he allowed himself to break.

***

Year 1

The apartment was alive.

Not with laughter or music, but with the piercing cries of a newborn, Mirena’s sharp wails cutting through the stillness like a sudden storm. The thin walls, papered in faded wallpaper and the smell of old paint, barely contained the sound. It echoed from room to room, bouncing off cracked tiles and peeling plaster.

Levi moved through the small space like a shadow, quiet, efficient, carrying the weight of exhaustion deeper than any physical injury he’d ever known.

Night after night, he paced the worn floorboards, rocking Mirena in his arms with a steady, practiced hand. The soft fabric of her blanket rustled against his jacket as she settled sometimes into a fragile sleep.

Behind him, Hange sat on the edge of the couch, pale but fierce. Her eyes, dark-rimmed and shadowed from sleeplessness, never left their daughter. Lips moving softly, whispering stories that only a mother and child could understand.

“See that, Mirena? That’s Orion. And there—Cassiopeia. The stars are watching you, little one.”

Her voice was low and soothing, like a balm against the sharp edges of reality.

Levi could feel the warmth of their little family in these moments, the tiny heartbeats shared in the dark, the slow breaths, the whispered lullabies against the cold night.

But beneath that warmth lay a rawness, a fragility.

Hange’s strength was the sun around which their world orbited. Yet, even the sun showed faint shadows beneath her eyes, dark hollows carved by worry, pain, and relentless fatigue.

Levi noticed the slight tremor when she reached for the bottle or the way she sometimes leaned too heavily against the wall.

Still, she smiled when Mirena grasped her finger for the first time, fierce and proud. That smile held them both upright.

They were a family forged in exhaustion, hope, and the fragile promise of new life.

And Levi vowed silently, every sleepless night, every whispered star story, ‘We will protect her. No matter the cost.’

Year 2

Hange insisted life should stay normal.

She still hummed tunes from her favorite documentaries as she braided Mirena’s hair. Still scrawled constellations on napkins and tucked them into her daughter’s lunchbox, labeling each star like an old friend: Betelgeuse says hi. Vega’s rooting for you today! She cut sandwiches into little Saturns and comets, adding wobbly doodles of Levi and herself floating in space, holding Mirena between them.

“Because you’re our gravity, little bean,” she’d say, tapping Mirena’s nose.

But normal started wearing thin.

In the mornings, Hange stayed curled up longer on the futon, her brow furrowed before she even moved. Sometimes, she coughed so hard it echoed down the hallway, muffled quickly with the back of her wrist. When she thought no one was looking, she pressed trembling fingers to her temples.

Still, she smiled when Mirena came bounding in.

“Mama!” the toddler squealed one afternoon, arms outstretched. “Mama the star lady!”

The nickname stuck like stardust. And Hange, even when breathless, knelt down and hugged her tightly.

“Do you want to go find Jupiter today, space scout?”

“JUPER!” Mirena beamed.

They made a ritual of it: Hange sitting wrapped in scarves on the small balcony, Mirena perched in her lap with Levi’s jacket draped over both of them. They pointed at the sky, though most nights were cloudy and Hange made up stories about invisible battles between planets, love stories between moons, and secret space pirates who tickled stars to make them shine.

Levi would come home late, boots wet from delivery runs, his arms aching from balancing shifts at the café and cleaning jobs. Sometimes, he’d find them both asleep on the balcony chair, Mirena curled up like a kitten on Hange’s chest, a telescope long-forgotten beside them.

He’d carry them in, one after the other, quietly.

Hange always woke just enough to whisper, “Thank you, Levi,” before sleep pulled her back under.

And when he was alone, he’d press a hand to her unused mug still on the table, still warm, and feel fear claw up his throat.

He couldn’t stop working. Couldn’t risk slowing down. The bills were stacking. Medicine wasn’t cheap. Life wasn’t waiting.

But Mirena… Mirena was a sunbeam in human form.

Her first real sentence came one stormy afternoon when Levi had just finished scrubbing the bathroom.

“Mama the star lady,” she declared proudly from the hallway, pointing to a crayon portrait she’d drawn: Hange with wild hair, sitting on a moon.

Levi blinked. He hadn’t cried in years.

And later, as Hange lay in bed, curled toward the baby monitor’s soft hum, Levi kissed her temple and murmured, “You’re still her whole sky.”

Hange smiled, too tired to open her eyes. “But she’s my galaxy.”

Year 3

The smell of antiseptic became strangely familiar. Mirena sat on Levi’s lap in the humming quiet of the hospital waiting room, her small fingers curled around a crumpled paper towel with cartoon stars Hange had doodled for her.

“She says this one’s Bet’juice,” Mirena whispered, mispronouncing Betelgeuse proudly. “It burps starlight.”

Levi huffed softly. “She would say that.”

Through the glass doors, Hange sat slouched in a chair, IV taped to her arm, her chest rising shallowly with every breath. She tilted her head to catch the afternoon light, pretending to read an old research article, but Levi could see the fatigue pinching the corners of her eyes.

That cough had never fully gone away.

At home, she still scrawled cosmic notes for Mirena’s lunchboxes. Still watched documentaries with the sound too low and her glasses slipping down her nose. But she wasn’t eating much. And Levi noticed how her fingers trembled when buttoning her coat, how even standing made her gasp for breath some mornings.

She didn’t say much about it. “It’s just stress,” she’d shrug. “I’ll bounce back.”

But Levi had stopped believing in rebounds. He saw the quiet panic in her reflection. He felt the way her body leaned into his longer each night, like she was slowly giving weight to the gravity she used to resist.

Still, she smiled for Mirena. Always for Mirena.

Meanwhile, Levi was drowning in everything else.

Hange had pushed him to follow through on the tea shop idea. “You’re a genius with balance and taste,” she’d insisted between coughs. “Turn that into something real.”

So he did.

He scraped together savings. Borrowed from Erwin. Renovated an old corner store near the university. Painted the shelves himself, staying up late with dust in his lungs and splinters in his palms.

He named it “Hikari Tea & Co.”—light, in her honor.

He worked the early mornings behind the bar, measuring leaves with precision, adjusting steep times for regulars, learning names, flavors, patterns. Then he'd race to the café where he picked up night shifts. On weekends, he delivered groceries to old clients just to cover the gaps.

Mirena didn’t understand why he was gone so much. She clung to his pant leg every time he tried to leave. He always knelt to kiss her forehead.

“I’ll be back before the stars wake up,” he promised.

Sometimes he wasn’t.

Hange tried to fill the hours with light.

They built solar system mobiles out of felt and pipe cleaners. She let Mirena paint the walls of her room with stars and spirals, even when it got on the ceiling. When the pain became too much to hide, she simply curled on the couch and whispered stories.

“Venus is brave, did you know?” she said one evening, voice thin. “She shines so bright, even when she’s hurting.”

Mirena didn’t understand, but she hugged her mother close and repeated the word like it was magic. “Veenus.”

And then one afternoon, while Levi swept the teahouse floor before opening, his phone buzzed. A voice message.

He played it, braced for hospital updates.

Instead, static and then a squeaky voice:

“Papa! Papa, come home!” A giggle. “Mama says tea needs your stir.”

Levi stopped mid-sweep. His eyes stung. He played it again. And again.

That night, he wrapped it up in the shop early. Came home with steamed buns and strawberry milk. Hange was asleep by then, curled on the couch, her glasses askew. He covered her with a blanket and scooped Mirena into his arms.

She mumbled against his neck. “Papa smells like cinnamon.”

“Yeah?” he whispered back. “You smell like trouble.”

Her giggle was the smallest spark in the coldest season. He held her tight. Because he could feel something slipping.

And he couldn’t let go.

Year 4

Levi’s tea shop was finally open.

Tucked between a secondhand bookstore and a florist, Hikari Tea & Co. became a quiet haven for students, late-shift workers, and lonely souls needing warmth in a cup. Levi poured himself into it measuring every leaf, brewing every pot with mechanical precision and the unspoken hope that if he could just get this right, maybe everything else would hold.

The shop smelled of roasted oolong, cinnamon, and jasmine. On the surface, things looked calm.

But home felt hollow.

Hange was resting more now, really resting, not just claiming fatigue. Her breath came thin and sharp; some mornings she couldn’t rise without Levi’s help. The hospital visits became routine, like unwanted appointments with inevitability.

Mirena, ever bright, noticed the difference.

“Why’s Mama sleeping so much?” she asked one rainy afternoon, curled beside Levi on the couch. The cartoons played, but neither of them were watching.

“She’s just tired, bug,” Levi murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

Mirena frowned, thoughtful. “Can we make her star soup? So she gets better?”

Levi’s throat tightened. “We’ll make her anything.”

Nights were the hardest.

Levi would come home after closing the shop, hands stained with tea and soap, shoulders aching. The apartment was dim, soft lamplight casting shadows on toys, science books, and coloring pages scattered across the floor. Hange would often be curled up in bed, pale and flushed, with Mirena tucked under one arm like a puzzle piece.

Sometimes she was too tired to talk. Other times, she whispered with a spark in her voice, asking about the shop, about the old man with the goatee who always ordered Darjeeling, about the playlist Levi kept looping.

“Play me the rain one,” she’d ask. “The one with the cello.”

He would. And he'd sit beside her, rubbing her hand until she fell asleep.

Then came the good week.

Something shifted. Her strength returned but not fully, not permanently, but enough. Enough to stand without wobbling. Enough to brush Mirena’s hair and argue over bento ingredients and dance a little off-key to Bowie in the kitchen.

The doctors called it "a temporary improvement."

Hange called it "a jailbreak."

And for that week, it was like she had burst from her cocoon and glowed.

She showed up to the shop one morning with Mirena in tow, wrapped in a galaxy-print scarf and armed with her camera. She asked customers trivia questions about planets and gave free tea to anyone who got them right. Mirena sat on the counter handing out sugar cubes like treasure.

Levi watched, stunned by how alive she looked, by the way her laugh still shook her whole body. And for a moment, just one, it felt like the past three years had been some long, bad dream.

That night, they had a real dinner.

Hange made stir-fried noodles… badly, Levi fixed most of it. Mirena insisted they eat on the floor “like astronauts.” They did, with a blanket and string lights overhead.

“You know,” Hange said, chopsticks in hand, “if I die soon, I want it to be after another meal like this.”

Levi looked at her sharply. Mirena didn’t catch it, she was too busy trying to feed broccoli to her stuffed raccoon.

“Not funny,” he muttered.

But she smiled, eyes soft. “I’m just saying... this? This is what matters.”

He didn’t reply.

Instead, he leaned over and kissed her temple.

The week didn’t last.

But the memory did etched into Levi’s mind like a star map, Hange twirling Mirena in the shop after hours.

Hange sitting cross-legged on the couch, lecturing about Europa’s ice crust.

Hange pulling Levi aside to whisper, “Thank you. For building all of this.”

And in the quiet that followed, when her body began to fade again, when her cough returned with teeth Levi clung to that week like a lifeline.

Because in it, she had been whole. And they had been whole.

Year 5

Mirena’s fifth birthday came wrapped in silver paper and quiet ache.

The apartment smelled of vanilla, wax, and the soft sweetness of star-shaped cookies. Levi had woken at dawn to make them by hand, just like Hange used to, clumsy little treats with too much cinnamon and edges browned from distraction. Mirena sat at the kitchen counter in a handmade paper crown, legs swinging, helping him frost each one with shaky icing stars.

But Hange’s seat was cold.

Empty, except for the blanket she always carried still folded there, a ghost of her warmth.

In the days leading up to the birthday, Hange had been in and out of the hospital more than home. Her body once defiant and burning with energy was quietly betraying her.

Each visit stretched longer. Each return shorter. There were weeks when Mirena didn’t get to hear a bedtime story, when Levi read them instead with his voice flat, clipped, trying to mimic Hange’s wild inflections and getting it all wrong.

Still, Mirena smiled through it. She was only five, but somehow, she knew.

She started drawing pictures for Mama “to take to the stars” planets with flower crowns, comets shaped like raccoons, a picture of her family with “Don’t be sad” scribbled across the top in glittery purple marker.

Levi worked at the tea shop, but now he kept his phone glued to him. The regulars learned not to linger when he stared at the screen too long. He’d leave the kettle boiling to answer a call. Sometimes he left mid-shift entirely, shutting the shop without explanation and sprinting through the streets toward the hospital.

Each time he opened the door to her room, his heart seized waiting to see if she was still breathing.

She always was. Barely.

The day before Mirena’s birthday, he arrived to find Hange propped up on pillows, smiling weakly. Her IV dripped quietly beside her.

“I’m coming home,” she rasped. “Just for one day.”

“You shouldn’t,” he said, though his hands were already wrapping around hers.

“I have to,” she whispered. “She’s five. That matters.”

So on the day of the party, Hange sat in her chair by the window, wrapped in her galaxy-print scarf, skin pale and fragile as parchment.

Mirena ran into her arms like it was any other morning.

“Mama!” she shrieked. “You’re here!”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Hange said, squeezing her tightly.

She didn’t have the strength to sing. But she clapped quietly as Mirena blew out her candles. She didn’t eat much, but she held a cookie in her hand the entire time. She watched her daughter open every gift like it was a miracle.

For a few hours, they were a family again not broken, not waiting, just together.

That night, after the guests had gone and the balloons had begun to droop, Levi helped her into bed.

“Thank you,” she said, voice barely audible.

He didn’t reply.

He just curled beside her as Mirena snored gently in the next room.

Sometime past midnight, Hange whispered, “I think I’m ready.”

Levi’s throat clenched. “No.”

“You’ll take care of her.”

“You will,” he snapped, but his voice cracked at the edges.

Hange leaned against him, the weight of her like starlight barely there, but blinding.

“She’s ours, Levi. She’s everything good we ever made. She is just not my happiness… Ours. ”

And before sleep claimed her, before the monitors would blink warnings again, she murmured the words that would echo in Levi’s heart for the rest of his life:

“Promise me… she’ll know I loved her.”

Levi, with every piece of himself breaking, whispered, “She already does.”

***

Year 6

It was a Tuesday when the world stopped.

There had been no warning. Hange had been humming in the kitchen just the night before, clutching her tea mug with trembling hands, telling Levi she felt "a little off." He’d asked if she needed the hospital, but she’d smiled and said, “No, just rest.” She kissed Mirena goodnight. Whispered, “Mama loves you to the moon and back.”

In the early morning hours, she had a seizure in bed. Levi woke up to the sound of her body convulsing beside him. Then came the silence. The kind of silence that never left the room, even after the medics took her away.

By the time they reached the hospital, she was gone.

Aneurysm. Fast. Painless, they said. But not for them.

Not for the ones left behind.

The chapel smelled like lilies and rain.

White walls. White roses. White noise, humming like static beneath the murmurs of friends and strangers dressed in black. It didn’t feel real. It felt like a terrible dream painted in sterile colors.

Levi stood stiffly near the front, black suit pressed, hands clenched at his sides like fists he couldn’t uncurl. Mirena, only five, clutched his hand tightly. Her small fingers trembled. She didn’t cry not because she didn’t understand, but because she did. Somehow, in the way children do. She had been waiting every day for Mama to come home from the hospital.

Now Mama never would.

Someone bent down to Mirena’s height. It was Petra, her voice soft and cracking.
“She’s with the stars now, sweetheart,” she whispered, brushing Mirena’s hair behind her ear. “Watching over you.”

Mirena looked up, blinking wide eyes, lips trembling. “But stars are far away. Too far.” Petra didn’t know what to say. No one really did.

Nearby, Moblit stood like a ghost, clutching a worn sketchbook Hange had filled with scribbles and equations. His eyes were red, his knuckles white. He had aged a decade in a week. “She said she’d finish this page when she got better,” he muttered to no one.

Erwin placed a gentle hand on Levi’s shoulder steady, grounding. He didn’t offer platitudes. He just stood there, anchoring Levi in the storm.

Mike lingered near the doorway, silent, his tall frame sagging under invisible weight. Nanaba and Gelgar brought warm soup in thermoses, something ridiculous and practical, Hange’s favorite, as if feeding people could keep her spirit close. They wept quietly by the altar, fingers entwined.

There were whispers of memories:
“She lit up every room.”
“She always knew too much about things no one else cared about.”
“Remember the time she tried to explain black holes at Sasha’s wedding?”

People laughed through tears. Levi didn’t.

He couldn’t bring himself to look at the framed photo by the altar. Hange, grinning like a fool, lab coat stained with ink, hair messier than ever. It was taken during a science fair she judged with Mirena on her hip, both of them waving like lunatics.

He couldn't look at her and accept she was gone.

Mirena held his hand tighter. “Papa… is Mama really not coming back?”

Levi knelt, slowly, knees trembling as he faced his daughter. He didn’t have words. Not any that made sense. Not any that wouldn’t break them both.

He touched her cheek, eyes wet but unblinking.

“No, sweetheart,” he rasped. “She’s not.”

There was a long pause before Mirena whispered, “Then… will you stay?”

Levi choked on the answer.
He wanted to say always.
He wanted to say I’ll never leave you.
He wanted to say I promise the way Hange once had in bed, years ago.

But his throat closed, and all he could do was nod.

Mirena leaned into his chest and finally cried.

Levi didn’t move. Just held her and stared at the white roses on the casket. His eyes were dry, but inside, he was hollowed out. A man made of ash.

The last time he saw Hange, she was smiling, holding Mirena’s drawing of Saturn. Now she was just a story people told with gentle voices.

And in a chapel filled with people, with flowers, with memories—

Levi felt utterly, devastatingly alone.

The house changed.

Her scarf still hung by the door. Her galaxy mugs still sat on the shelf. Her favorite sweater, the one she’d worn when pregnant, lay folded in a drawer that Levi opened too often and then slammed shut like it had burned him.

The warmth evaporated.

Levi still functioned like he always had. He cooked meals. He braided Mirena’s hair with quiet precision. He ironed her school clothes, tucked her in at night, packed her lunches with the same care Hange once had.

But he didn’t smile.

He didn’t laugh at her jokes or respond when she called the moon “Mama’s flashlight.” He stopped humming when he cleaned. He forgot to leave notes in her bento box.

His grief built walls without realizing.

Mirena, nearly six years old, watched it all quietly.

At first, she tried to cheer him up the way Mama used to: with dumb knock-knock jokes and science facts about wormholes and stars. She made chalk drawings on the living room floor, suns with glasses, doodles of Mama holding her hand but when she showed them to Levi, he just blinked and whispered, “Don’t draw on the floor.”

So she started drawing in her room instead.

A week later, she asked if they could visit the planetarium. “Mama was going to take me.”

Levi paused. Something in his throat cracked open. “Not today.”

The words felt like stone. Final. Unmoveable.

She nodded. "Okay."

That night, she didn’t ask again.

He never meant to pull away  but every smile on her face was Hange's. Every question was her voice reborn.

“Why is the sky blue?”

“What happens to stars when they get tired?”

“Do you think Mama still hears me?”

Each one made Levi's chest cave in.

And the worst part was that he knew he was failing her. He knew she needed more than just clean laundry and healthy meals. She needed the warmth Hange had given so freely. But Levi didn’t know how to give it without breaking.

He was protecting his own shattered heart, and in doing so, he let hers quietly crack beside his.

The apartment was quieter than ever. The walls, once alive with laughter and light, now felt hollow, echoes of a family torn apart.

Levi moved through the rooms like a ghost, going through the motions of life with a numbness that weighed heavier every day. His footsteps were soft, almost hesitant, as if afraid to disturb the silence that had settled like dust over everything.

He cooked the meals without taste, stirring pots mechanically, the sizzle of food in the pan a distant hum rather than a comforting sound. Plates clattered quietly onto the table, untouched or only half-eaten.

He cleaned the dishes without thought, scrubbing away remnants of meals with vacant eyes, his mind elsewhere, trapped in memories that both comforted and tortured him.

Helping Mirena with her homework became a routine to endure rather than a moment to connect. He sat beside her, watching her pen glide over paper, but his gaze was distant, his responses delayed and distracted.

At night, when the world outside quieted and the stars spilled their pale light through the window, Levi would sit alone, fingers tracing patterns on the glass. He stared up at the constellations, the same ones Hange had taught them to find  but he never made a wish. The hope inside him had dimmed, replaced by an ache that words couldn’t reach.

Mirena, small but wise beyond her years, reached for him more and more. Tentative touches, an outstretched hand to hold, a gentle brush of her fingers against his arm. Tentative questions and soft invitations to share stories, to laugh, to play.

“Papa, do you want to come read with me?” she asked one evening, her voice hopeful yet trembling.

“Papa, will you play with Sawney?” she pleaded on another day, eyes shining with innocent longing.

Each time, Levi’s replies were short, distracted, or absent altogether. His voice, once steady and warm, now came out clipped or barely audible. Sometimes, he didn’t answer at all.

He avoided eye contact, his gaze flickering away whenever Mirena looked at him. He withdrew deeper into himself, walls closing in around his heart. His love that was once a roaring flame had become a quiet shadow, present but cold, unable to reach out or warm the spaces between them.

Mirena felt the growing wall between them like a solid barrier, heavy and unyielding. She began to shrink away, her small shoulders rounding as if trying to make herself invisible. She confused Levi’s silence for anger, his distance for rejection.

She missed the warmth, the hugs, the smiles and the way things used to be when Mama was still here. She missed the light in her father’s eyes, the softness in his voice, the way he used to chase her around the apartment, making her laugh until she couldn’t breathe.

One evening, wrapped in her blanket and clutching Sawney close, she sat on her bed and whispered to the empty room,

“Papa doesn’t want me anymore.”

The words slipped out, fragile and aching, carried on a breath of loneliness.

Somewhere in the next room, Levi’s heart cracked a little more. He heard her words, even if he tried not to. But the weight of his grief so raw and consuming kept his voice locked away. He sat still, tears threatening, trapped by his own silence, unable to reach across the growing distance to the daughter who needed him most.

And in that quiet, broken moment, two lost souls lay side by side, aching for each other but trapped in the shadows of their sorrow.

***

Mirena began to wonder if she’d done something wrong.

Maybe it was the jokes. Maybe she reminded him too much of Mama.

She stopped asking for bedtime stories. Stopped asking him to look at her drawings. When he packed her lunch, she said thank you in a small voice and didn’t complain about the lack of notes.

She still whispered “goodnight” through the crack in his door every night.

But she stopped waiting for an answer.

Present day - 2025

Mirena, now seven, found Sawney II behind the school dumpsters. A matted, shaking kitten — fur clumped with dirt, one eye crusted shut, bones poking through its patchy skin. It didn’t run when she reached for it. Just stared with quiet desperation, like it had already stopped expecting kindness.

It reminded her of Hange’s old stray rescue stories — tales she used to tell with that glint in her eyes, the way she’d say, “All they need is someone who doesn’t flinch. Someone who looks at the broken parts and says, ‘You still matter.’”

The kitten looked at her like that. Like she mattered.

So Mirena bundled it in her jacket, zipped it close to her chest, and carried it home inside her backpack. She could feel it purring faintly against her ribs the whole walk, like a small heartbeat that needed hers to survive.

At home, she fed it the boiled egg from her bento. Then leftover rice. Then the bits of chicken Levi had packed neatly into her lunch. She hid it under her bed at first, but the smell gave it away, and soon she moved it to the windowsill, the one that caught the afternoon sun, where Hange used to keep plants that always died too soon.

She wrapped Sawney II in one of Levi’s old tea towels, the faded one with the corner tear and faint tea stains. It still smelled faintly like him, soap and quiet.

And every night, when the house fell silent, she whispered her secrets into Sawney’s fur.

“Mama used to say stars could hear everything.”

“She liked naming things. You’re Sawney Two. The first was my frog plushie mama got for me. He is not real but you are.”

“Papa's not mad at me, I think. He’s just… not all here anymore.”

She told the kitten things she hadn’t told anyone, not even the school counselor with the soft voice and the too-polite smile.

Because Sawney listened. Sawney stayed.

When the kitten stopped eating one day, Mirena’s chest ached.

It cried all night, a thin, rasping sound that curled in her stomach like guilt. She held it to her chest under the covers, trying to shush it like Hange used to hush her after nightmares.

That night, she lay awake staring at the ceiling, whispering to the stars through the cracked window.

“Mama… what do I do?”

The silence answered.

So the next morning, she skipped recess and went to the school library. She typed in every word she knew: sick kitten won’t eat, stray cat care, red eyes infection what to do. She took notes. Cross-referenced symptoms. Found a list of nearby clinics and their prices.

Everything pointed to the same conclusion: infection. Maybe respiratory. Maybe something worse. But if she didn’t act fast, Sawney would die.

And she couldn’t lose anyone else.

“I can fix this,” she whispered to herself, clutching her notebook. “I have to.”

That evening, she even asked the school nurse.

The woman glanced at her kindly but said, “You should probably have an adult take the cat to the vet, honey.”

But she didn’t want an adult.

She wanted Mama.

She remembered the way Hange used to carry strays in her coat, how she’d pull out her wallet even when Levi muttered about budgets, and say, “We make room. We always make room for the helpless.”

And now it was Mirena’s turn. Her turn to make room. Her turn to be someone’s safe place. To not flinch. To matter.

***

She waited until Levi got home late, the key turning in the lock slower than usual.

His coat was dusted in flour from the tea shop’s back oven, he’d been testing new recipes for the weekend crowd. His apron was stuffed into his satchel, still damp with steam. The scent of roasted oolong and burnt sugar followed him in.

His eyes were ringed with fatigue. His wrist ached from restocking shelves and hand-labeling jars. His shoulders drooped as he shut the door behind him with a soft click .

Mirena stood in the hallway, barefoot in her pajamas, cradling Sawney II like something sacred.

“Papa,” she said carefully, her voice small. “Can I have money? For the vet?”

Levi blinked slowly. He didn’t even look at herand just bent over to unlace his boots, fingers stiff and numb. “No.”

“Please,” she tried again, clutching Sawney tighter. “He’s really sick. I can help pay back. I’ve been saving—”

“We don’t have extra for pets right now,” he snapped, not sharply, but with a tired, clipped tone — worn and brittle. Like he wasn’t answering her , just the endless list in his head.

Rent. Groceries. School supplies. Electric. The still-unpaid hospital fees from Hange’s final months. The looming credit card balance he hadn’t opened in two days. The shop’s heating bill.

He was running on fumes, patching a sinking boat with duct tape and late nights. He hadn’t eaten dinner. He hadn’t slept more than four hours in days. And this, another cost, another helpless creature, another reminder of what he couldn’t fix felt like a breaking point.

But she didn’t know any of that. She only heard the way his voice shut the door on her.

Final. Cold. Like she didn’t matter.

She stood there for a moment longer, staring up at him with wide, dry eyes. She said nothing.

Just turned and walked back to her room. No tears. Not yet.

***

That night, while Levi finally slept, slumped over bills at the kitchen table, arms folded across spreadsheets and empty tea tins Mirena tiptoed down the hall. The wooden floor creaked beneath her, but she moved with the silence of someone who'd learned not to wake ghosts.

She slipped into her parents’ old room, where time stood still.

The bed was still made on one side. The other untouched.

She moved to the tall dresser, to the top drawer Levi rarely opened. Her hands trembled as she tugged it free. Inside: neatly folded shirts Levi couldn’t throw out, a packet of dried lavender long gone scentless, and beneath them, an astronomy journal with a cracked spine.

And under that… the silver locket.

It was warm from the soft clutter around it, the chain tangled, the clasp stubborn. Mirena’s heart pounded. She held it in her hands for a long moment, unsure.

Inside was a tiny photo of Levi at seventeen. His hair awkwardly short, his brow furrowed, clearly mid-protest at having his photo taken. And beside it, a snapshot of Hange, flushed and radiant, holding baby Mirena against her chest. Hange was smiling so wide it made Mirena’s breath catch.

She could hear her mother’s voice again, playful and teasing, “He gave me this when we were idiots in love. Swore he’d protect me forever. So I locked him in a necklace like a curse.”

Mirena sniffled, wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her pajama shirt, and carefully wrapped the locket in a soft tissue.

She didn’t go to the pawn shop.

She went to school early the next morning, with Sawney II wrapped in her backpack again, nestled in her scarf. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Her hands didn’t stop fidgeting.

She waited outside the classroom until Pieck, her homeroom teacher, arrived. Pieck, always soft-spoken and sharp-eyed, took one look at Mirena and knelt down beside her.

“Mirena, is something wrong?”

The little girl held out the wrapped tissue with shaking fingers. “I need a loan,” she said, solemn as a contract. “Please don’t just give me money. This is… really special. But I can’t let him die. I don’t want to lose anyone else.”

Pieck unwrapped the locket carefully, her breath catching when she recognized the face in the photo, Hange, joyful and alive.

She looked up at Mirena, heart quietly breaking.

“You’re not losing anyone today,” Pieck said softly, closing the tissue again. “This isn’t payment. It’s a promise. I’ll hold onto it for you, just for a while. And you’ll bring Sawney back, healthy and purring. Then we trade back. Deal?”

Mirena nodded quickly, a tear slipping down her cheek.

“Good,” Pieck said, rising to her feet. “I’ll call a vet friend. You did the right thing, Mirena.”

And for the first time in days, the weight on Mirena’s small shoulders felt a little lighter.

***

A week later, Levi noticed the empty drawer.

His chest tightened the moment he saw it. The silver locket m, his good luck charm, the last physical piece of Hange he clung to was missing.

Frantic, he tore through their room, pulling open every drawer, overturning piles of papers, upending the bed. The weight of loss pressed down on him heavier than ever.

Mirena stood frozen in the doorway, watching Levi’s desperate search. Finally, she gathered the courage to speak.

“Papa… what are you doing?”

Levi’s eyes, wild with exhaustion and grief, met hers.

“I’m looking for the locket,” he said harshly, voice shaking. “The one Hange gave me. The one I’ve kept since we were kids.”

Mirena swallowed hard. Her voice barely a whisper.

“I… I loaned it to Ms. Pieck. She’s keeping it safe for me until Sawney gets better.”

Levi’s face twisted, a storm of pain, anger, and heartbreak flashing across it.

“You loaned it?” he snapped, voice rising. “Without telling me? Without even asking?”

Tears welled in Mirena’s eyes. “I just wanted to save Sawney…”

His hand slammed down on the dresser, rattling the frames beside it.

“You don’t get it!” His voice cracked, raw with years of sleepless nights and unbearable loss. “That locket was the last thing I had of her! The last piece of Hange!”

Mirena flinched, but he wasn’t done.

“Do you know what she gave up to bring you into this world? What she risked? What I risked?”

He took a shuddering breath, and the words slipped out before he could stop them.

“We… we never should’ve had you.”

The room went deathly silent. Mirena’s face crumpled. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She just nodded, shrinking beneath the weight of his words.

Levi’s hands trembled, eyes filling with tears he refused to shed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered brokenly. “I didn’t mean it.”

But the damage was done. And in that moment, their fragile world cracked wide open. “Just go to bed, Mirena.” he said tiredly.

***

That night, Levi’s footsteps echoed softly down the dim hallway. He felt guilty about earlier. He failed Hange with failing to keep his promise. 

She wasn't just Hange's happiness. But THEIR happiness. 

He pushed open Mirena’s door and froze. The bed was empty. The soft quilt crumpled, the stuffed animals abandoned.

His heart sank. No. He scanned the room frantically.

Sawney’s little blanket was missing. Her favorite scarf, the one she wore like a cape was gone. So was her backpack, left by the door.

On the neatly made bed lay a single piece of lined paper, folded once, edges creased from nervous fingers.

Levi’s breath caught as he picked it up.

The handwriting was small… too small for the weight it carried.

“I’m sorry I was born.

I didn’t mean to take Mama away.

I’ll go fix Sawney. I won’t be trouble anymore. Good bye papa. ”

– Mirena

His eyes blurred. The paper slipped through trembling fingers as a heavy silence filled the room.

Pain seared through his chest like a thousand knives, each word cutting deeper than the last.

“I’m sorry I was born.”

How could a seven-year-old bear such sorrow? How could she think herself the cause of all their suffering?

His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, the cold wooden planks pressing against his shaking frame.

His breath hitched. The tears he had held back for years came crashing down — silent, unrelenting.

He felt utterly broken, a father who had shattered the heart of the only person left to him.

It was his fault. He was a failure of a father and now a husband for not keeping his word for Hange. 

Fumbling, Levi reached for his phone, fingers numb and trembling. His breath caught in his throat, heart pounding like a drumbeat against his ribs.

He dialed the Erwin's number, voice raw and hoarse before he could even say a word.

“Please… help me find her.”

The words barely escaped before a familiar voice answered on the other end.

“Levi? What’s wrong?”

He swallowed hard, trying to steady himself.

“Mirena’s gone. She ran away.”

Silence stretched for a beat, then Mike’s voice, calm but urgent.

“Where do you think she’d go?”

Levi’s mind raced. Then it hit him, the one place Mirena always found comfort.

“Where Hange used to go. The old observatory on the hill.”

He ended the call and quickly dialed Nanaba.

“Nanaba, it’s Levi. Mirena’s missing. She’s probably at the observatory.”

Nanaba’s voice was steady, but Levi could hear the concern beneath it.

“I’m on my way. Keep your phone on.”

Levi’s hands shook as he called Furlan next.

“Furlan, I need you to help find Mirena. She’s run off. I’m going after her now, but she’s small. She might not be safe.”

Furlan’s voice was firm, authoritative.

“We’re mobilizing. We’ll meet you there.”

Levi’s chest tightened as a desperate prayer escaped his lips.

Not again. Not again. Not her.

Because he couldn’t lose her too.

He grabbed his coat and keys, heart racing as he stepped out into the cold night, the hunt for his daughter just beginning.

The twilight sky stretched wide and bruised, painted in deep purples and streaks of fiery orange, as Levi, Mike, Nanaba, and Erwin sprinted toward the place Mirena always called “Mama’s secret meadow.” It was nothing grand, a quiet patch of grass and wildflowers atop the old university library’s rooftop but to Mirena, it was a sanctuary. It was where Hange had often escaped, her laughter mingling with the rustling leaves, her eyes sparkling as she dreamed under the open sky.

Levi’s chest tightened with every step, a desperate hope driving him forward.

When he finally reached the rooftop garden, he found her curled beneath the sprawling branches of the lone oak tree, her tiny frame hunched, trembling as she held Sawney II close to her chest. The kitten’s soft mew was barely audible against the evening breeze. Mirena’s cheeks were stained with tears, her red-rimmed eyes fixed on the fading light.

In that moment, the world around Levi faded until all that remained was the sight of his daughter, so fragile, so broken, and so achingly familiar.

His heart shattered anew.

He took a hesitant step forward, voice cracking as he called out, “Mirena…”

She didn’t look up. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, tears welling in his eyes, voice raw and trembling. “I didn’t mean what I said. I was angry. I was… broken.”

Her gaze snapped to him wild, fierce, and filled with a pain that tore through Levi like a knife.

“You’re only scared because you lost Mama!” she yelled, voice shaking, raw with grief.

His throat tightened. Words failed him.

“But she’d still be here if it wasn’t for me!”

The accusation hit him like a storm, crashing through his defenses. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. Only silence.

Mirena stood abruptly, clutching Sawney tighter as if the kitten’s fragile life was the only anchor she had left.

“I’m a curse! I never should’ve been born!”

Her voice was a jagged edge in the night.

And then, like a terrified animal, she turned and fled.

Levi’s breath caught in his throat. “Mirena, wait!” he shouted, but she was already gone, fading into the darkening streets below. He ran after her but she was too tiny and fast and before he knew it —

Suddenly, the sharp, piercing screech of tires cut through the night’s stillness.

A truck came barreling down the narrow street.

Time seemed to slow, the glaring headlights, the terrifying sound of brakes locking, the sickening thud that echoed like a death knell.

Levi’s lungs seized, his world collapsing into silence and darkness.

He dropped to his knees, hands outstretched toward the spot where she vanished, powerless.

The night swallowed her cry, and Levi was left with nothing but the cold emptiness of a world that suddenly felt unbearably cruel.

Nanaba gasped sharply, her eyes wide with shock, while Levi stood frozen, the world around him blurring into a haze of panic and despair. Mike and Erwin gently grasped his shoulders, trying to anchor him back to the moment, but Levi felt utterly lost, adrift in a storm of grief and fear.

In the distance, Furlan’s shaky voice pierced the night, urgently calling for the ambulance. But Levi barely registered the sound. All he could focus on was his little girl who was so fragile, so still, lying unconscious before him.

His legs trembled as he knelt beside her, hands trembling as he cradled her limp form. His heart ached with a desperate prayer whispered through tears.

Please don’t leave me. Not like this. Not so soon. Hange would curse me if I let this happen. And there would be no reason for me to be alive. 

The sirens grew louder, slicing through the night air, as the ambulance arrived in a flurry of urgency. Levi barely noticed as paramedics lifted Mirena onto a stretcher, her tiny body fragile against the cold metal.

Levi climbed into the ambulance beside her, clutching her hand with all his remaining strength. His breath hitched, and tears spilled freely down his cheeks, mixing with whispered apologies and broken promises.

“I’m sorry, Mirena. Please don’t leave me. I need you. I love you. You are our miracle. My happiness.”

The city lights blurred past the windows as the ambulance sped toward the hospital,each moment stretched painfully long, every second a battle against the creeping darkness threatening to claim her.

Levi’s sobs shook his body as he rode through the night, holding onto hope and heartbreak in equal measure, praying with every fiber of his being that Mirena would wake because without her, everything else was meaningless.

***

It had been a week since the accident. Mirena lay in the sterile hospital room, her small body still and fragile beneath the white sheets. The monitors beeped steadily, a quiet reminder that she was stable but still unconscious. Levi sat by her bedside, exhaustion weighing heavy on his shoulders, his stubble grown thick and unkempt from days without care.

He was a man who never believed in gods or prayers, but now, faced with the silence where his daughter’s voice once was, he found himself reaching out in ways he never thought possible.

At night, when the hospital was quiet and shadows stretched long across the floor, Levi would gaze up at the pale moon through the window and whisper soft, trembling prayers not to any deity, but to the stars themselves.

“Please,” he’d murmur, “bring her back. Let her come home.”

Sometimes, when his voice faltered, he’d pick up a worn book about constellations the one Hange had treasured, and one Mirena had loved listening to. He would read aloud in a low, gentle voice, telling stories of distant stars, of cosmic dances and ancient myths.

“See, Mirena,” he’d say softly, tracing the constellations with a trembling finger, “this is the Great Bear, just like Mama told you. And this one—Orion—the hunter, strong and brave. Just like you.”

His voice cracked, but he kept reading, holding onto hope with every word, every starry tale.

Because in that cold hospital room, under the glow of machines and distant galaxies, Levi was learning a new kind of faith… faith in miracles, faith in love, and faith that someday, Mirena would open her eyes and come back to him.Mirena stepped lightly across the glowing field, the soft light beneath her feet pulsing gently like a heartbeat. Around them, the stars twinkled bright and near, casting shimmering paths across the endless sky. Books floated in the air, drifting lazily like leaves on a gentle breeze, their pages whispering stories of distant galaxies and ancient heroes.

Hange’s laughter floated through the air, warm and easy. She twirled, reaching out to catch a falling page and read aloud with playful enthusiasm. Mirena watched, mesmerized by the effortless joy her mother radiated… her presence filling this dream world with a light that made even the stars seem dull in comparison.

For a while, they wandered together through the fields of stardust and stories. Hange braided Mirena’s hair with practiced hands, humming the same quiet tune she used to sing when they were alive, a melody that made Mirena’s heart feel full and safe. They talked about the stars, naming constellations, inventing new ones, and sharing dreams they’d never spoken aloud before.

“Look at the Great Bear,” Hange said softly, pointing to a cluster of shimmering lights. “It watches over us, just like I always will.”

Mirena smiled, feeling warmth spread through her chest. “I love the stars,” she whispered. “They feel like home.”

Hange nodded, eyes shining. “They watch over us, even when it’s dark. Even when we can’t see them.”

But as the gentle peace of their dream world wrapped around her, a shadow flickered across Mirena’s face. She pulled away from her mother’s hands, eyes distant.

“Mom… I have to tell you something,” she said, voice small.

Hange’s gaze softened with understanding. “Anything, sweetheart.”

Mirena took a deep breath. “Papa… he said I’m a mistake. That I was never supposed to be born.”

The words hung heavy between them.

Hange’s hands found Mirena’s again, squeezing gently. “He’s wrong,” she said firmly. “He just… never learned how to say the right thing. Sometimes, when people are scared or hurting, they say things they don’t mean.”

Mirena’s eyes welled with tears. “Does Papa hate me?”

“No, love. Never,” Hange whispered, brushing a stray tear from Mirena’s cheek. “He loves you more than anything in this world. Even before you were born, Levi loved you. He told me once… our happiness is his happiness. But after everything… the pain has made him forget that. He’s scared. Scared of losing you the way he lost me.”

Mirena’s voice trembled. “Then why does he say those things?”

“Because he’s hurting. Because he doesn’t know how to love without fear. You have to remind him, Mirena. Remind him that you are the best thing that ever happened to us.”

Mirena swallowed hard, nodding slowly.

“I wish I could go back. To help him. To tell him I love him too.”

Hange smiled softly, beginning to fade into the glow of the stars. “You will, sweetheart. Every time Papa looks at you, every time he thinks of us—I’ll be there. And you’ll remind him.”

Mirena reached out, voice barely a whisper. “Will I see you again?”

“Always,” Hange said, her form dissolving into starlight. “You’re never alone.”

As the dream began to fade, the warmth of her mother’s love settled deep inside Mirena’s heart, a steady, unbreakable light guiding her home.

The soft beeping of the monitors was the first sound Mirena noticed as her eyelids fluttered open. The sterile hospital room came into focus slowly, bright, cold, and unfamiliar. For a moment, panic prickled at the edges of her mind. Then, through the haze, she heard it, a muffled, uneven breath, the unmistakable rhythm of someone crying.

She turned her head weakly and saw him beside her bed, his face buried in the blanket she had clutched while unconscious. His shoulders shook with silent sobs.

“Papa…” Her voice was thin, but it carried the weight of weeks lost in silence.

Levi jolted, eyes red-rimmed and wide with shock, as if he’d been caught in a nightmare he never wanted to wake from.

“Mirena,” he whispered hoarsely, reaching out with trembling hands to touch her cheek. “You’re awake…”

Her voice grew steadier as she whispered, “I saw Mama.”

Levi’s breath hitched, a mixture of relief and fresh pain washing over him. His lips trembled as he finally spoke, voice raw and cracked with guilt.

“Mirena… I’m so sorry. I failed you. I hurt you with words I never meant. I would never say such cruel things if my heart weren’t broken into pieces.”

He paused, swallowing hard as tears spilled down his face.

“You are not a mistake. You are the reason I survived losing her. The reason I keep breathing when everything inside me wants to stop.”

Mirena’s eyes filled with tears too, and she reached out slowly, hesitating only a moment before taking his hands in hers.

“You should be sorry,” she said softly, her voice trembling. “Mama was very angry about what you said. She said it wasn’t fair to either of us—that you were hurting and scared, but you had to hold on.”

Levi nodded, his forehead resting against her hand, his tears soaking her skin.

“I know,” he whispered. “And I’m sorry to both of you. I was afraid—afraid of losing you like I lost her. I didn’t know how to say it without breaking you.”

Mirena’s lips quivered as she smiled through her tears. “We can heal, Papa. Together.”

For the first time in years, they cried openly with no walls, no distance, just two broken hearts finding their way back to each other.

Levi held her close, promising silently that he would never let fear drive them apart again.

In that quiet hospital room, surrounded by the steady beep of machines and the glow of fading stars outside the window, they began to rebuild their family… one fragile, beautiful moment at a time.

EPILOGUE 

One year had passed since that terrifying night… the night that had almost torn their fragile family apart. The thin thread between life and loss had been stretched tight, but it hadn’t broken. Not yet. Here they were still together, still healing.

Sawney II padded happily beside Mirena, his fur glossy and his steps light and lively. The once-sick kitten had blossomed into a playful companion, filling the house with warmth and mischief, chasing sunbeams and curling up at bedtime like a living reminder of hope.

Mirena’s eyes sparkled with curiosity and fierce determination, a little scientist in the making, just like her mother had dreamed. She spent long afternoons explaining constellations to Levi, carefully tracing star maps with her fingers and showing him diagrams she’d drawn herself. She bombarded him with questions about rockets and frogs and everything in between, patiently coaxing him into the world of her wonder.

Levi smiled more now, genuine and unguarded, the kind of smile that reaches the eyes. He had worked hard to pay off the mounting debts that had haunted their days, to build his tea shop into a small but thriving sanctuary. Yet, the most important work was the one that happened quietly, inside: therapy.

He had begun seeing a counselor, someone who listened without judgment and gently guided him through the tangled knots of grief and guilt. Slowly, he learned to face the pain he had buried deep inside, to forgive himself for the things he wished he could take back, and to open his heart again not just for Mirena, but for himself.

Mirena was healing too. Her therapist helped her find words for the swirling feelings inside, a mixture of sadness, anger, and hope. With time, she learned that her father’s silence wasn’t rejection, and that love could look different in grief. She began to trust that the warmth she sought wasn’t lost forever.

The silver locket, the one Levi had once clung to like a lifeline rested gently around Mirena’s neck, now a symbol of the family’s enduring bond and the memory that held them close.

One quiet evening, under the vast sky glittering with stars, the same stars that had watched over them all along Levi whispered softly as he held Mirena’s hand in his, “I’m learning to love again like how your mother taught me.”

Mirena squeezed his hand back, a smile bright and steady.

Every year, on the anniversary of that painful night, they visited Hange’s favorite place, the rooftop garden filled with wildflowers and dreams. Together, they released paper lanterns into the night sky, sending their hopes, love, and memories upward to the stars where Hange waited.

As the glowing lanterns floated higher and higher, Mirena rested her head on Levi’s shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear, the beat of a father learning to live, to love, and to hold on.

That night, in the soft glow of her room, Mirena opened her journal and wrote carefully:

“I’m helping him now, Mama. Just like you said.”

And beneath the vast, endless stars, the family’s story, scarred but unbroken continued, shining brighter than ever before.