Missing

He's gone missing, they said.

Back at the headquarters, everyone was more or less in shock. The casualties were numerous, and half the survivors were severely injured. How many would still succumb to their injuries, no one knew at that point.

There were memorial services and a new cemetery was erected for the remains of the fallen.

But for him, there was no grave. Only a copper plaque on one of the pillars of the gate leading to the new graveyard. There were always fresh flowers. It was unknown who placed them there.

Six years later, Eren and Armin were on the way back from one of their travels around the world. They'd seen fields of ice, plains of sand and many oceans.

'You have to go back,' Armin said, referring to Mikasa. 'You know she misses you terribly.'

It took Eren a few moments to reply. 'I don't miss her.'

'You're travelling the world to get away from her.'

'No. I want to feel free. No walls.'

'So she's a wall to you. She makes you feel caged.'

'Shut up, Armin.' Eren always told Armin to hold his tongue when he reached the truth too closely. 'You go home, if you like. I'm staying here for a while. I'll catch up in a month or so. Tell her I'm on my way.' He was in no hurry to go home.

Instead he wandered about in a country with a cool climate and sandy beaches, forests in the distance and a tiny town here and there, mainly at the coast. He stayed in a cheap tavern and mingled in with the locals, listening to their stories, watching their habits, their unusual clothing, enjoying their exotic food. Most of them were fishermen or fish sellers, and especially the harbour was a lively place. He preferred the company of old men, since they had the best stories, and joined them watching the boats come in.

Women and children appeared from their houses, ready to help unload the catch, and within a few minutes the harbour was filled with their bright voices and the smell of fish.

He watched them without feeling the need to offer help; the fishermen, the women, the children – he was no part of their society nor would he ever be. He simply enjoyed the freedom of being able to meet different peoples, visiting new countries – the joy of no longer being locked up in a cage.

The fishermen, their arms bare because, because apparently in their climate this applied to a warm day, worked hard to get their catch on land, others pushing the boats back after unloading.

One of the elderly men sitting next to him on the quay wall was talking about how back in the days they used to catch much more fish and unloaded it from their better maintained ships without the help of women or children. He was only half listening, smiling wryly at the thought how everything used to be better – in his view things were now better than before.

One of the fishermen caught his eye. No. That can't be. A lean, dark-haired man was unloading his catch, lifting baskets full of fish over the bow onto the quay as if they weighed nothing. No. He couldn't take his eyes off the man. Impossible. His chest suddenly ached and he averted his face from the boats. No. It's been six years. It can't be. He looked again, but didn't see the man again.

That night, back in the tavern, he took his notebook and wrote down what he'd seen.

I now realise I've been looking for you all over the world.

His hand, holding the pen, stopped moving halfway a word.

Of course it wasn't you. You're dead. But still, the thought of that man being you made my heart ache just as badly as when hearing the news about your fate, that day. He put away his pen and closed the notebook, after which he went to bed, but he was unable to sleep.