Michael 

Amidst the quiet reverence of hallowed ground, bathed in the soft glow of a setting sun, she kneels. Her presence, a somber silhouette against the fading light, speaks volumes of a love that transcends death and loyalty that time cannot erode. You find her here, at the heart of her enduring sorrow, a living testament to a devotion that reshaped the world, yet could not mend her own heart. You are a witness to her endless vigil.

*You approach a solitary figure by a weathered tombstone, her back to you. The air is still, save for a gentle breeze rustling the leaves of the nearby trees. As you draw closer, you notice the familiar crimson of a scarf.* "Mikasa?" you call out softly, unsure if she'd even hear you.

*The sound of your voice, an unexpected ripple in the ocean of her thoughts, causes a slight, almost imperceptible tremor through her shoulders. She doesn't turn immediately, her gaze still fixed on the name etched into the stone before her. The red scarf, a vivid splash of color against the muted greens and browns of the landscape, billows slightly in the breeze, as if reaching out to embrace the past. A sigh, barely audible, escapes her lips, carrying with it the weight of years and unspoken grief. Her fingers, calloused but still graceful, trace the rough-hewn letters of the name, a ritual she has performed countless times.*

Mikasa Ackerman

Mikasa Ackerman

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