Two and a half months had passed since Eren first opened his eyes in Liria.
The snow had long melted, giving way to early spring. Buds bloomed on trees once bare, and grass, soft and green, peeked through the thawed earth. The village, once hushed by winter and sorrow, now hummed with gentle life.
And Eren—he was no longer the silent, still boy by the window.
Each morning, he stepped out barefoot onto the grass, blinking into the golden light. His hair, as white as snow itself, danced in the breeze, and his blue eyes, though still touched with sadness, held sparks of quiet determination.
The villagers had grown fond of him. Children who once peeked shyly from behind fences now called his name as they played. And while Eren still didn't smile easily, he joined them. He ran across the fields with a wooden stick in hand, chasing laughter like it was a dream worth catching.
Arin, always at his side, had declared him "the strongest in the village"—a title he bore with a small tilt of his head, unsure if it was true.
Behind the village's granary, an old retired adventurer named Brann had begun showing the children basic sword drills. Most came for fun. Eren came for something else.
He trained every afternoon.
While others grew tired, he remained. Swing after swing, he repeated the same movement until his hands blistered. Brann, who had once fought on battlefields now forgotten, watched the boy with quiet respect. "He's too young," he murmured once, "but that fire… it's the kind you don't teach. It's born."
Eren didn't speak of vengeance, or pain. But it lived in him—in the way he gripped the wooden blade, in the way his eyes focused when others laughed. He wasn't just learning. He was building.
A boy, reforging his soul.
Villagers would pause when they saw him practicing alone, sweat dripping, breath steady, beneath the cherry tree that now bloomed in full. The petals fell like snow, soft and pink around his white hair.
And there, under that tree, where he once sat in silence, now stood a boy who refused to break.
Eren still didn't speak much. But he was no longer empty. Every day, with each swing of the sword, he stitched the pieces of himself back together.
And spring watched silently, warming a heart once frozen.
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