Armin’s head was buried under the blanket.

  The soft, slightly damp texture of the fabric. The familiar scent.

  But—something felt off.

  As he shifted his body, small, light limbs stirred beneath the covers.

  The sensation of his elbow brushing against the blanket, the way the creases touched his skin—everything felt unfamiliar.

  Slowly, he opened his eyes.

  He saw the ceiling.

  The grain of rough wooden planks. An old window letting in a faint stream of sunlight.

  To the left, a small bookshelf leaned against the wall.

  Wasn’t one of the corners slightly sunken? …Yes, that’s right.

  This was the room Armin had lived in as a child.

  Armin pushed the blanket aside and sat up.

  He looked at his hands and arms. They were small. Thin. Not the body he had built up over years of training. Even his frame had shrunk.

  Clearly… this wasn’t his current self.

  “...A dream, huh.”

  The quiet murmur stirred the air.

  There was no panic. No confusion.

  Instead, a feeling closer to acceptance settled over him.

  He pressed a hand against the blanket and slowly took in his surroundings.

  It was unmistakably the room from his memories.

  The one he lived in as a child, before the Titans breached the walls.

  'A lucid dream.'

  When was the last time he had one of those? It must have been over ten years ago.

  Dreams are so strange things—you almost never realize you're dreaming while you're in one.

  Even the most well-known trick—pinching your own arm—could be faked by the dream, producing a fabricated sense of pain.

  There had been many times he was convinced, “This is definitely not a dream,” only to wake up moments later. Especially with the nightmares about Titans—it was always like that.

  But this situation—this couldn’t possibly happen in reality. That’s why he accepted so easily that it was a dream.

  If it had been something more grounded, like being kidnapped to an unknown place or suddenly turning into a mindless Titan, he probably wouldn't have even questioned whether it was a dream.

  The moment he became aware it was a dream, the meaning behind it came to him just as quickly.

  This time… this place… there was a part of him that had longed so desperately to see it again.

  At that moment, a voice came from beyond the door.

  “Armin, Eren and Mikasa are here to see you.”

  Armin slowly turned his head toward the door.

  It was the voice of his grandfather—

  the one who had died during the first operation to reclaim Wall Maria.

  He didn’t react right away.

  But somewhere deep in his chest, something stirred—just a little spark.

  Grandpa is alive… and Eren and Mikasa are in this dream too.

  A faint smile touched his lips.

  Of course they were. It made perfect sense.

  This was a dream, after all.

  A lucid dream set in this period of his life—it would be stranger not to see them.

  One by one, the faces he missed would appear—

  just like actors stepping onto a stage in their proper turn.

  A quiet sense of anticipation bloomed deep within his heart,

  and he gently folded his hands on top of his knees.

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  The door opened soon after.

  “Armin! You were taking too long, so we came to get you!”

  The boy burst in cheerfully.

  That familiar expression—his face still carrying the freedom of childhood.

  It was Eren.

  When Armin had imagined seeing young Eren again, he thought he’d greet him with a smile and a soft, “It’s been a while.”

  But now, faced with a version of Eren more vivid than memory, his throat tightened, and only his lips moved slightly, unable to speak.

  Following close behind came a quiet girl with black hair.

  Clear eyes. A calm yet gentle presence. It was Mikasa.

  She looked just as she had before everything happened—

  no scar on her face, none of the quiet sorrow she had worn at Eren’s grave.

  This was the Mikasa of their childhood.

  The moment Armin laid eyes on them both, he forgot to speak.

  Eren, childishly frowning, said, “I said you were taking forever, so we came to get you!”

  But beneath the pout, there was a curious sharpness to him.

  His words were clumsy, and his actions hasty, but his eyes were strikingly clear.

  Was Eren always this sharp?

  The Eren in his memories had been the kind of friend who charged ahead without thinking.

  Eren plopped down beside the bed.

  He was slightly out of breath, probably from running, yet his eyes remained sharp and unwavering.

  Eyes Armin knew well—

  eyes that always saw things as they were, felt them as they came, and spoke them without hesitation.

  Even sharper than he remembered.

  His hair was messy, his voice rough, every movement impatient—

  and yet, the fire inside him couldn’t be denied.

  That drive to move toward something,

  that impulse to act even before a thought could fully form.

  “Armin… you remember we promised to go to the library together this morning, right?”

  Mikasa spoke gently, almost cautiously.

  He turned his eyes toward her.

  Long black hair falling past her shoulders, a soft face, the familiar red scarf always wrapped around her neck.

  Her expression was neutral by default, but it didn’t come off as cold.

  Her eyes were much larger and clearer than he remembered.

  She looked much younger—and more pretty—than the Mikasa in his memories.

  Most of all… there were no scars on her face yet.

  Armin looked closely at Eren’s face once again.

  He wasn’t smiling at the moment, but he had the kind of expression that looked like it could break into a grin at any second.

  Up close, Eren’s face looked far younger and cuter than Armin remembered.

  Armin was a little surprised to realize just how cute Eren could look.

  Maybe he had simply forgotten because,

  the last version of Eren he saw was the grown-up one—

  the one who had fallen into darkness alone,

  who had lashed out at Mikasa with a twisted face and cruel words,

  who had seen the future, had his mind shattered, and was forced to choose the least terrible path in the depths of despair.

  'Is this something I embellished in my memories?

  Or… was it really like this, and I just forgot?'

  Even when he tried to think logically, emotions kept getting in the way.

  The Eren and Mikasa standing before him now looked far more beautiful—far more precious—than he remembered.

  'If this really is a dream… maybe my brain just pieced them together in the way I most wanted to see them.'

  The moment that thought crossed his mind,

  something deep in Armin’s chest gave a faint, aching throb.

  Eren stared at Armin for a while before furrowing his brow.

  “What the… Why are you spacing out like that? Are you still half-asleep from your dream?”

  When Armin still didn’t respond, Mikasa quietly stepped closer and sat beside the bed, speaking in a soft voice.

  “Armin… Are you feeling unwell? Do you have a fever or something...?”

  She gently reached out, about to touch his forehead—

  but before her hand could make contact, Eren cut in again, tossing out another comment.

  “Armin… was oversleeping really that much of a shock to you?”

  Then, trailing off, he muttered under his breath,

  “If it’s that you’re shocked because you made us wait…

  Well, yeah, I’ll admit it was a bit annoying coming all the way here.

  But it’s not like I hate you for it, or that you were really a bother or anything…”

  At that, Mikasa let out a soft “Ah,” pulled her hand back, and gave a small nod.

  “It’s okay, Armin. We can go to the library later,” she said reassuringly.

  Armin watched them quietly, breathing softly.

  Even as he tried to rationally analyze the structure of the dream,

  a part of him felt so deeply grateful—so moved just to see their faces again—that he could almost cry.

  His chest tightened.

  Afraid he might wake from this dream at any moment, he found himself breathing slowly, carefully.

  Just a little longer—he wanted to stay like this, watching them, just a bit more.

  Eren...

  Could this be... the scene you wanted to show me?

  Was this, maybe, the final gift you left me… with the power of the Founding Titan?

  He wasn’t ready to wake up from this dream—not yet.