The road to the capital, Mitras, was long—not measured in miles, but in the silence that stretched between the passengers like a dense fog.
At first.
Then, slowly, that fog began to thin—broken by three minds that had never learned how to remain idle for long.
Hange was the first to tear through the quiet, her voice bright with wonder and curiosity.
"Here, inside the Walls, we barely grasp the edges of knowledge," she said.
"But outside… you seem like the children of a civilization centuries ahead of us. What drove you to chase science so relentlessly?"
Sarah looked at her. Something like a knot passed through her eyes before she smiled.
"Science was survival, not luxury," she replied softly.
"In Marley, those who fail to evolve… disappear. We had to burn through stages, outrun time itself—
even if we burned with it."
Armin, listening with the awe of a child and the caution of a thinker, leaned forward.
"Was there ever a moment," he asked carefully,
"when you felt you were getting close to something… impossible?"
Sarah laughed quietly, then exhaled—as if recalling a memory scorched at its edges.
"Once," she said,
"a friend and I tried to design an engine that could function without fuel. Completely insane, I know.
But we believed in it fiercely."
She paused.
"The result? An entire laboratory exploded. If I had been one second slower… I wouldn't be here now."
They exchanged glances and soft laughter, but behind Hange's smile lingered deep thought.
Armin fell silent for a moment before asking, almost in a whisper:
"Do you miss it? …That life?"
Sarah turned her gaze toward the endless road ahead.
"Sometimes," she admitted.
"Not the city—but the version of myself who believed equations could solve everything."
She smiled faintly.
"Now I'm in a new equation. Wilder. More uncertain.
And maybe… more human."
Silence settled again—but it was no longer the same silence.
It carried respect. Sadness. Hope.
As if the road to Mitras was not only crossing land—but hearts.
Mitras
At sunset, the shadows of Mitras fell heavy against its towering walls as the carriage passed through the gates, escorted by heavily armed guards.
The city glowed—bright, loud, unfamiliar.
As though it belonged to an entirely different world than the one they had left behind only hours earlier.
Yet behind the light were eyes.
Watching. Measuring. Waiting for a mistake.
They were led in tense silence to the headquarters of the Military Police. The palace interior was rigid, almost frozen—long corridors and wide staircases displaying manufactured strength while concealing real anxiety beneath the surface.
Upon arrival, they were ordered to inspection.
Sarah, expecting routine procedure, froze when two soldiers demanded she open her personal bag, while an officer studied her with narrowed, suspicious eyes.
"Items from outside the Walls?"
he asked coldly, flipping through her notebook and a small booklet filled with symbols.
Sarah did not answer immediately.
Then she said calmly, deliberately:
"If you're searching for military secrets, you won't find any here.
Only memories."
The officer neither smiled nor responded.
He simply wrote something down.
Armin stepped forward diplomatically.
"Sarah is under official approval," he said.
"There's no need for this level of hostility."
The officer replied without looking up.
"Documents don't stop betrayal.
Marley remains the enemy—
even when it smiles."
A Dinner of Observation
After prolonged questioning, they were allowed into the grand hall for the official dinner.
It felt no warmer than the interrogation.
Sarah sat between Armin and Hange, surrounded by the gazes of skeptical officers—as if they weren't seeing a woman, but a probability of treason.
One high-ranking officer spoke loudly, testing her reaction.
"We hear you build machines that fly. That reshape the land.
What will you build for us?"
Sarah smiled gently—but her eyes never wavered.
"Dreams," she replied.
"Dreams can be far more dangerous than machines.
And those who do not know how to dream should not be trusted with reality's tools."
Hange clapped, laughing.
"I love your answers. Don't worry, gentlemen—
the experiments to come will steal your breath."
Armin quickly redirected the conversation, presenting ideas for agricultural and technical development—grounding the room in cooperation.
Yet Sarah knew.
This wasn't a celebration.
It was surveillance.
Night in the Capital
Late that night, Sarah sat by her window.
Mitras glittered beneath artificial lights, hiding a city afraid of anything new—
even a woman holding a notebook.
She stared at the sky, suddenly feeling like a stranger.
"Am I here to ignite a war… or to build peace?"
she wondered silently.
No answer came.
Only another question, heavier than the last:
"Was coming here a mistake?"
Back at Headquarters: A Silence That Presses Down
The headquarters felt… suspended.
Sarah and Armin's absence was small on paper—but enormous in reality.
The quiet wasn't peaceful.
It was the kind that comes before something breaks.
Levi had not left his room all day.
That alone unsettled everyone.
Mikasa wiped the table for the third time, her movements tense.
"This silence isn't reassuring," she murmured.
"When Levi disappears like this… something is boiling underneath."
Sasha tried to lighten the mood.
"That's why we clean. If he explodes, at least he won't complain about dust."
She laughed—then stopped.
Downstairs, Jean muttered while sweeping:
"Levi doesn't need a reason to be angry. Sometimes I think anger is his default state.
If he ever laughs, the earth might split."
Outside, Connie rested a hand on Hero's black mane.
"Maybe he's not angry," he said quietly.
"Maybe he's just sad. Sadness makes people act in ways no one understands."
Dinner Without Them
That evening, they gathered at the long table.
The empty spaces spoke louder than words.
Conversation fractured before it began.
Then the door opened.
Levi entered.
He took his seat at the head of the table without looking at anyone.
He ate slowly, mechanically.
No expression. No orders.
Yet the air grew unbearably heavy.
Even Sasha stayed silent.
Finally, Eren spoke softly:
"We'll take care of everything… until they return."
Levi did not respond.
He only nodded—barely.
A hollow gesture.
As if his body was here… and his heart elsewhere.
Levi Alone
That night, no one asked about Sarah.
But every heart missed her in its own way.
Levi returned to his room—not because sleep called him, but because habit did.
He opened the window, sat at his desk, and pulled an old book from the shelf—a gift from Nile, years ago.
He flipped through it absentmindedly.
Then stopped.
At a single line:
"Those who leave suddenly do not abandon you—
they plant themselves into every ordinary moment."
He closed the book.
"Ridiculous," he muttered.
But his mind didn't listen.
Her voice returned.
"Books keep what we can't say out loud… don't they?"
That night, there was no one to answer him.
Flashback — Night
The white teacup sat on the table.
His cup.
The one Sarah had once held without knowing how precious it was.
Isabel's laughter echoed in his memory.
"Even your cup suits only someone as strict as you."
Winter. Firelight. A moment when he wasn't alone.
Now the cup remained.
Isabel was gone.
And Sarah… was leaving.
"Why does it feel," he whispered,
"like I'm losing something all over again?"
Questions
Which scene affected you the most—and why?
Has Sarah truly begun to leave her mark on Levi, or is his heart still in denial?
If you were Sarah, would you return to headquarters… or choose an entirely new path?
Some roads seem distant—
yet they often lead to the same place.
Sarah seeks her place in a merciless world.
Levi seeks to understand a heart he was never taught to read.
Can science meet emotion?
Can silence ever become a spoken word?
If you've ever felt unseen…
remember—silence sometimes carries a cry only kindred hearts can hear.
If you're here, reading this with feeling—
you are not just a reader.
You are part of this world.
I've written dozens of chapters beyond this point, and honestly—
your support is the fuel that keeps me going.
If you loved this chapter, please leave a ⭐ and a comment.
Every word from you matters more than you know.