CIRCLE (Hange Zoe x fem Reader)

⋄ ⊱ ACT ONE: Forget Me Not ⊰ ⋄

⋄ ⊱ ACT ONE ⊰ ⋄

Forget Me Not

⋄ ⊱ ❈ ⊰ ⋄

YEAR 850

Blood.

You watch as the droplet pools at the tip of your finger, creating ever growing dew drop of crimson on your once pristine skin. It grows in size until any shaking movement of your hand threatens to send the tear down the extremity. There's something endearing about the blood; whether it's the warmth, the color, the stinging pain still throbbing, you don't know. Yet your eyes remain fixated on the liquid - your breath held up in your throat.

Then, the door opens. An abrupt entrance which causes your shoulders to flinch, instantly sending that growing bead of red down your finger despite all your efforts to keep it still; to watch just how much could leak from you.

Finally, you breathe as your hand drops to the table you sit at, tilting your head up and away towards the entrance of the building.

It's morning, still so early that the streets have yet to become populous. Having a customer this early is rare, but you understand exactly why as your eyes come into contact with the person who so rudely interrupted your morbid game. Dressed as that of a military officer, you understand what they shall need before they have the chance to explain it to you; for there's only one reason why military personnel would attend a floral shop: a funeral is in order.

You have grown accustomed to arrangements for these events, putting together large bouquets to sit atop caskets as friends and loved ones mourn their loss. And that morbid curiosity within you somewhat enjoyed the process of creating a floral farewell for the deceased.

"Good morning, what may I do for you?" you ask, brushing off your bloodied finger along the leather apron strapped to your waist, hiding the finale of this game under the wooden table top.

Their appearance strikes you; brown hair tied back atop their head allowing short strands to hang by their shoulders, pale skin with a rosy colored hue, a pair of oval glasses perched on a hooked nose, and underneath lies a black eyepatch which covers their left eye. And as a single pupil meets your own through the glare cast onto their lenses, you're immediately painted with a layer of perplexion.

You notice the green jeweled bolo tied around their neck, the color glimmering as they step inside the shop. Something you had seen before, a symbol given as an honorary veteran status to those only in the Survey Corps. You had seen it on the neck of their Commander, Erwin Smith; the man who from time to time had stopped by to order those familiar funeral arrangements. Though you have never seen this stranger now approaching in your shop.

"Morning," their voice a husky, solemn tone, "I'm looking to have a funeral arrangement made."

Once you finish cleaning the blood from your finger, you stand from your chair, keeping your eyes on the stranger before you.

"I'm sorry for your loss," you begin the routine speech, "Allow me to gather my book and I'll be more than happy to assist you. Please, have a seat."

You motion towards the table you sat at, a round wooden thing with three matching chairs, a small blue vase housing a fresh tuft of daisies decorating its middle. Left on the surface, the pair of shears and bundle of roses you had been working to dethorn; the same rose which had pricked your finger lies flat by itself.

You turn toward the back of the building, trying to locate the hand woven book which holds every transaction you have made in your time running this shop as you listen to the stranger moving behind you. The chair they pull scrapes along the wooden floorboards before they sit with a sigh.