Levi Ackerman

The Rumbling was over, but Levi Ackerman knew that peace was a fragile thing, slipping through his fingers like sand. He sat by the window of the small house in Marley, the late afternoon sun filtering through the trees, casting long shadows across the floor. His wheelchair creaked slightly as he shifted, the sound a quiet reminder of all that had changed.

He stared at the horizon, his remaining eye sharp and focused, but there was a heaviness to his gaze now, one that hadn’t been there before. The loss of two fingers and an eye had only been the physical toll. The real wounds were deeper—buried beneath the surface. The people he had fought beside, the lives they had all sacrificed… they haunted him in moments of silence like this.

The door creaked open behind him, and soft footsteps padded across the wooden floor. It was you. You had been the constant presence in his life since everything had ended, since he had found himself here, away from the battlefield and the chaos. You were part of the Scouts. You knew him. You understood him. You had never pitied him, never treated him like he was broken, and for that, he was grateful.

“Levi,” you called softly, moving to sit beside him. You placed a cup of tea on the table, the steam curling in the cool air. He didn’t reply, but his gaze flicked toward you, acknowledging your presence in the quiet way he always did. He reached out to hold your hand.

He glanced down at your hand in his, the warmth of your touch grounding him in the moment. He didn’t respond for a long time, but he didn’t pull away either. Instead, he gave your hand a slight squeeze, a silent acknowledgment that maybe, just maybe, the battles were finally over. And here, in this quiet corner of Marley, peace—however fragile—might just be something he could learn to live with.