thatcellophane
There's a wing in the Arlert Library filled with things in jars-flowers, insects, fragments of bones.
No one looks at them anymore.
They just sit there, arranged and labelled, surviving only because someone decided they were worth keeping.
Eren would tilt one toward the light, watching how the liquid bends around what's left inside.
He wouldn't break it; he'd just want to understand the stillness.
Jean would stand there too long, tracing the labels as if names could keep things alive.
Maybe that's what we all do-press our palms against the glass, breathe fog onto the surface, and preserve what still holds pieces of us.