The Final Meeting in the Dining Hall
The sun had not yet risen when Sarah quietly opened the door to her room.
But this time, there was no distraction in her eyes—no fracture.
She had been awake since dawn, as though sleep no longer suited a woman who had chosen to wake up different.
She bathed, arranged her hair, and applied the faintest touch of kohl—not meant to be seen, but to be felt.
Then she put on a soft golden dress, as if she were meeting the light itself, not people.
It wasn't a dress of vanity, but a gentle armor for a soul that had brushed something resembling healing.
She paused before the mirror, studying her reflection as if seeing herself for the first time.
Sarah—of Marley, of pain, of regret.
But now also of light laughter with Jean, of sunset conversations with Armin,
and of one unforgettable moment… when Levi had taken her hand before she fell.
She fastened her hat carefully and slipped on the small earrings her mother had once left her.
Everything about her appearance was simple—yet it carried a single thought:
I am leaving, yes…
but I will not leave as I arrived.
When Sarah descended into the dining hall, the room felt more alive than usual.
The scent of freshly baked bread and warm soup filled the air, and soft conversations crossed above the long wooden table.
Everyone was there:
Sasha laughing with Connie,
Jean debating with Armin about which gifts Hange should take to Queen Historia,
and Mikasa carefully folding small pieces of cloth to wrap the presents.
The moment Sarah entered, eyes turned toward her—
as if she were not merely present, but someone the room itself had been waiting for without knowing it.
Jean raised an eyebrow.
"At last… the star has arrived."
Sasha waved her spoon at her.
"Do you know what you missed last night? That soup you made with Eren was the best thing I tasted all week!"
Connie laughed.
"Or the worst thing you missed! They made us clean every speck of dust because Hange was coming!"
Mikasa looked at Sarah calmly.
"Are you alright?"
Sarah smiled warmly as she took a seat at the edge of the table.
"I'm fine… I just needed some silence."
Armin added gently,
"You look calm—but your eyes are saying something else."
She knew.
They had noticed the change in her. The closeness. That quiet thread that binds hearts, no matter how brief the time.
And yet, she also knew—something inside her was not ready for this departure.
Sasha suddenly asked,
"Will you write to us from the capital?"
Sarah laughed softly.
"I won't promise… but I'll think of you often."
Jean smirked.
"I just hope you don't come back as a planted spy."
Sarah returned his grin, having learned well how to answer him.
"And if I do… you'll be the first one I start with.
❖ Lingering Glances – The Dining Hall
Suddenly, the hall door opened, and Levi stepped inside with his usual precise stride.
But this time… nothing about him felt usual.
Silence fell over the table like snow against a windowpane.
Spoons froze mid-air, glances stiffened, as though his presence carried something unspoken with it.
Levi stood at the doorway, his eyes sweeping quickly over the faces gathered there.
But there was one face he did not linger on—
one he avoided, as if it burned to look at.
Sarah.
Despite the calm set of his features, something restless burned behind his chest.
He hesitated for a heartbeat, then spoke, his voice tight with restrained tension:
"What time… are you leaving for the capital?"
He didn't raise his eyes.
He didn't name anyone.
Yet everyone knew exactly whom he meant.
Hange smiled faintly and set her cup down with deliberate care, as if extinguishing tension with porcelain:
"Ten o'clock sharp. We have business with Queen Historia. We won't be gone more than two days."
Then she glanced sideways at him and added, in her usual teasing tone:
"I promise we'll bring her back… unless we change our minds."
A few laughs rippled through the room, but the air remained charged.
Sarah stayed silent, her gaze fixed on the tea cup before her, as if waiting for something… that never came.
Hange moved again, pulling the weight out of the air with her steps. She walked over to Sarah and opened her arms warmly:
"Come here, you disappearing scientist. Where were you last night? The dish you made with Eren was incredible, and you didn't even taste it."
Sarah rose hesitantly and stepped into the embrace. As they hugged, she murmured—without taking her eyes off Levi, who had turned his face slightly away, as if the sight unsettled him:
"Sometimes… you don't need food when you're already full of things you can't digest."
Hange lifted her brows in mock surprise and whispered near her ear:
"And do these indigestible things… happen to start with the letter L?"
Sarah laughed softly, winked at her, then said aloud for everyone to hear:
"Some minds need a very long time to digest. And perhaps one dish simply isn't enough."
Laughter broke out around the table.
Levi, however, frowned, then moved toward the table without a word.
Yet he felt it—
as if something inside him had been stabbed.
Sarah sat again, her heart still pounding to the rhythm of that look… that unfinished sentence she never spoke, yet delivered to him clearly.
Hange sat down laughing quietly, as though she alone held the keys to this silent chaos.
It was not an ordinary morning.
Even the light filtering through the windows seemed hesitant, as though the day itself was reluctant to begin.
The hall buzzed with motion—
soft laughter, hurried steps, clinking cups, bags being fastened.
Yet amid all that human noise, there was a silent moment no one could see except those who carried it in their hearts.
Sarah sat quietly at the end of the table, watching them talk about the capital, Queen Historia, the trip meant to be brief.
But in her heart, nothing felt brief.
Everything that had happened here felt like a full chapter of her life.
When she arrived, she had been an intruder.
Then a stranger.
Then a suspect.
And then… something else.
Now, as she prepared to leave, she felt as though she would be leaving behind far more than she had brought with her.
Her eyes passed over the faces she had come to know:
Armin, hiding his worry behind reason.
Sasha, laughing less, watching more.
Mikasa, no longer a silent blade but a thoughtful heart.
Connie, who no longer saw her as an enemy, but as a fragile hope.
But her gaze settled on only one man.
Levi.
He stood near the door, as if his very presence troubled him.
His eyes didn't know where to rest, and his chest seemed tighter than usual despite the loose shirt he wore.
He asked quietly:
"What time are you leaving?"
But it wasn't really a question.
It was an unfinished confession.
As if he were saying: How long will it take me to stop thinking about you?
Hange, reading his confusion perfectly, answered with a knowing smile:
"Ten in the morning. Just two days, and we're back. Nothing changes in two days… right?"
But she knew—as did he—that many things change in a single moment.
Sarah said nothing.
Words crowded inside her, battling between her heart and her lips, and no one won.
She rose slowly.
She didn't make a sound—she simply gathered her gaze… and walked.
At the threshold, her eyes met his.
For the last time, perhaps.
There was something in his look she had never seen before—
hesitation, unrest, something like regret.
But he closed his eyes quickly, as if afraid of revealing more than he wished.
Sarah didn't smile.
Didn't get angry.
Didn't speak.
She only felt something inside her melt—like snow finally understanding that winter was over.
Her steps toward the exit weren't just a departure.
They were a quiet withdrawal from a place that had become more than a headquarters.
It had been a temporary home.
But the hearts within it were not temporary.
Behind her, Levi remained where he stood, unmoving.
Yet something inside him shattered—silently.
Her silence was the farewell.
Her gaze was the confession she never dared to voice.
And he needed nothing more to know that the chaos… had already begun.
Sarah stood at the edge of the hall, holding her small bag as if trying to turn departure into nothing more than a step—rather than a knot in her throat.
She hadn't expected leaving this place to cost her so much.
Here, she hadn't found a homeland.
But she had found a silence that resembled her own heart.
Here, she hadn't loved completely—
but for the first time, she hadn't been hated either.
Connie was the first to approach, his face like that of a child waiting for news that might change his family's fate:
"Sarah… I don't know what awaits you there, but I believe you'll find a way to do what's right. My mother… she's still waiting for you, even if only in a dream."
Sarah nodded gently, carrying an unspoken promise that made miracles feel—just barely—possible.
Mikasa stepped beside her, her gaze unusually warm:
"When you see Historia… give her my regards. And… don't worry. Levi trusts you, even if he never says it."
Sasha didn't try to hide her tears. She laughed while crying, as she always did when she didn't know whether to celebrate or mourn:
"You know… these days you spent with us were the calmest I've felt since joining the Corps."
Sarah blinked, genuinely surprised:
"I thought… I caused nothing but trouble."
Jean laughed softly from behind:
"Real trouble is when Titans storm the headquarters and we're half-asleep. With you around… nothing like that happened. We were just… living."
Eren stepped forward hesitantly. He didn't meet her eyes, but his voice was softer than anyone expected:
"I'm sorry… about your first couple of days here. I wasn't fair."
Then he added, with quiet steadiness:
"And thank you… for teaching me how to cook soup without turning it into a battlefield disaster."
Sarah smiled, truly smiled this time. The warmth in his voice told her that some wounds could heal—slowly.
Then, without warning, Jean was there.
He stepped forward lightly, eyes shining with that uncertain glimmer that never knew whether to laugh or break.
Without asking, he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off the ground, as if trying to freeze time before it slipped away.
He laughed loudly on purpose, trying to sound cheerful—but the laugh cracked at the end, as if it fell from his heart rather than his mouth.
"Don't leave like this, as if you never passed through here! The headquarters will miss your laughter—and your conversations I used to call annoying… but honestly, they filled the place with life."
Sarah gasped softly.
She hadn't expected this kind of farewell.
She hadn't expected her body to react like this.
She wanted to ask him—gently—to put her down.
But something stopped her.
Her gaze slid instinctively to the far side of the hall.
He was there.
Standing.
Silent.
Burning.
Levi.
His eyes didn't move.
But his grip tightened around his own arm, as if restraining an inner blade from breaking free.
His gaze was sharp as knives—yet never aimed directly.
He doesn't allow himself that.
But he saw her.
Saw her lifted in another man's arms.
Saw her smile despite her confusion.
Saw her slip away from him—moment by moment, ache by ache.
Sarah didn't need to look at him.
She felt him.
Felt the weight of his gaze like a stone dropped into her chest.
As if the world paused, asking her silently: Do you ache the way he does?
She lowered her voice, whispering gently, firmly—almost pleading:
"Jean… please, put me down."
Jean understood.
He set her down immediately, a sudden silence replacing the laughter.
And just like that—
the moment ended.
And Sarah—when her feet touched the ground again—realized her heart was still in the air.
Suspended somewhere between a man who said nothing…
and a man who said everything—wrong.
As for Levi—
He remained standing, like a monument carved from stone.
Everything about him hinted at a storm,
yet his face was a polished mask of composure.
Only his eyes betrayed him—just for a heartbeat—
when a tremor passed through them, uninvited.
Sarah stepped away carrying a single sentence in her chest:
"You could have stopped me…
if you had only said: stay."
Her footsteps faded behind her,
and the light spilling through the windows painted farewell lines across the floor of headquarters.
Sarah—who pretended steadiness—felt her bag was lighter than her heart.
In her hand, she carried everything she needed to leave,
but what she did not know was whether she carried what she would need to return.
Then, like a quiet breeze before a storm, Armin appeared.
There was light in his eyes, and a smile that did not resemble a goodbye—but a beginning.
"If you're leaving," he said gently,
"then so am I."
She looked at him, surprised, a hesitant smile tugging at her lips.
"Armin… you don't have to. This mission isn't mandatory."
He stepped closer, careful not to disturb the air around them.
"I know. But it's like you—it needs someone who believes in it, not someone who watches from afar.
And I chose to believe in you… not observe you."
His words were like the shade of a palm tree in the desert—
pure, kind, unmistakably sincere.
Sarah didn't answer.
She only smiled, then bit her lip to stop herself from saying what shouldn't be said.
Outside, the carriage waited.
Minutes slipped away like sand.
One step stood between her and departure.
And then—she passed by the dining hall.
He was there.
Levi.
Standing as always, his left hand gripping his right arm,
as though shielding himself from a feeling he refused to acknowledge.
His gaze was steady—revealing nothing—yet not avoiding her either.
She stopped.
Her voice held no reproach, only a small wish—to hear something. Anything.
"Aren't you going to say something to me…?"
He lifted his eyes to hers.
That same look she had seen before—
but today, it was too neutral. Too controlled.
He answered simply, the words escaping without reflection:
"It's only two days."
Then added, with practiced indifference:
"I'm no good at goodbyes anymore.
Those who lose too much… learn to keep walking,
not stop for everyone who leaves."
Silence.
Sarah looked at him for a long moment.
He resembled stone—
but to her, he looked like stone slowly sinking.
"I understand," she said quietly, and turned away.
Yet as she did, she caught a glimpse of his eyes closing—for just a second.
It wasn't an ordinary blink.
It was as if two lids closed over something that must not be seen.
Like a box sealing secrets meant only for the solitude of night.
Her footsteps faded.
But her shadow remained.
When the carriage departed and silence settled in,
there was nothing left in the fortress to listen to—
except the sound of his own footsteps.
Levi returned to his room like a soldier who survived a battle—
not to rest,
but to count his losses.
He closed the door—
not harshly,
not gently.
Just closed it—
as though even noise wasn't worth breaking the silence for.
He sat at his desk.
Nothing awaited him.
No papers. No reports. No mission.
Only a cold surface and a fine layer of dust—
as if no one had ever been there.
As if she had never been.
He ran his fingers across the wood, searching for a trace—
something to anchor her memory to this emptiness.
And then he stopped.
Inside him, a whisper rose—
her voice:
"Aren't you going to say something to me?"
His reply then had been simple. Efficient. Typical.
"It's only two days."
But now, in this stillness, those words felt unbearably small.
He sat in silence.
And within it—her laughter existed.
The way she stared when she disliked orders.
The slight tilt of her body as she held a teacup—
as if afraid it might shatter,
or as if she were trying to tame time itself.
He didn't know what had changed.
He didn't understand why her footsteps refused to leave his mind,
or how she had left behind something that felt like an uncomfortable void.
He told himself, quietly:
"I don't care."
Then—after a moment—
like a confession under pressure, he whispered again:
"Or maybe… I don't want to care."
Silence followed.
Even the silence
did not believe him.
Flashback – "Regret Makes No Sound"
That night, after Levi returned from the forest, he sat alone in his room.
Darkness filled the corners, and the silence pressed so hard it almost rang in his ears.
He removed his coat slowly, set his blade aside, then sank into the wooden chair without lighting the lamp.
His eyes were open—yet he saw nothing.
Only her voice echoed inside him:
"I just wanted to try something different…"
He pressed his fingers to his forehead.
A heavy breath escaped him against his will.
He was not used to guilt.
He did not know how to carry this new weight tightening in his chest.
"I didn't mean to be that harsh…
She broke the rules. That's all. She broke the rules…"
He told himself that—but his heart did not believe it.
His mind drifted back.
Years ago, when he was still just a recruit, he had seen a horse in a blind rage throw a soldier to the ground.
No one dared to approach.
Except one woman.
Simple in appearance, soft-haired, fear trembling in her eyes—Isabel. His friend.
She stepped closer, placed her hand gently on the horse's head, and whispered something Levi could not hear.
The raging beast calmed instantly.
That moment never left him.
The moment he learned that some hearts understand even monsters—without a single word.
And suddenly, Sarah's face rose before him.
Sarah on Hero's back, smiling despite her fear, whispering to the horse as if to an old friend.
Why didn't I believe her?
Why did I assume recklessness?
Why did I put a blade to her throat?
He stood abruptly and began pacing the room like a caged man.
His hand still remembered the warmth of her skin when he grabbed the reins near her fingers.
His body had been in the forest—
but his heart had stayed by the lake.
He stopped before the mirror.
Exhaustion lined his face.
But beneath it, what he saw most clearly was something else.
Sadness.
He leaned closer and whispered to his reflection:
"If she hides her past…
then I hide a regret that cannot be forgiven."
That night, he wished he could apologize.
But Levi Ackerman had never learned how.
He learned only how to fight—
and how to remain silent.