Fading Light

The air was cold and heavy with the scent of old wood and dust. One moment they had been in the mess hall, the training yard, the barracks—then a flash of white, and now they were here. The 104th Training Corps found themselves seated in a cavernous room bathed in shadow, rows of worn velvet chairs facing an enormous blank screen. Eren Jaeger shot to his feet, fists clenched. “What the hell is this?”

Beside him, Mikasa Ackerman was already scanning for threats, her hand instinctively reaching for a blade that wasn’t there. Armin Arlert’s wide eyes flickered with growing unease. All around, confusion erupted—Jean’s sharp voice, Connie’s nervous laughter, Sasha’s panicked yelp as she realized her bread roll had vanished. Then a deep, resonant voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere.

“You are here to witness the truth of what is to come. The future will unfold before you. Do not try to leave. You cannot.”

Silence fell like a shroud. Slowly, the cadets sank back into their seats, exchanging fearful glances. Not all the faces were present, though. Alex Morgan—tall, broad-shouldered, with the same striking blond hair as his younger brother—sat rigidly near the front, his jaw tight. Someone else’s absence screamed louder than any sound.

Lucas wasn’t here.

Christa Lenz felt that absence like a wound reopened. She looked at the empty space beside her as if she could will him into existence. Lucas Morgan, with his impossible beauty—long sun-blond hair that fell silk-soft past his shoulders, eyes the exact blue of a pristine sky, so luminous they seemed to hold trapped light. The kind of face that made people stop and stare. But it was more than that. He had always been so calm, so effortlessly confident, never a trace of awkwardness or shame. A photographic memory that caught every detail like a perfect reflection. And underneath it all, the cruel irony of his illness.

A brain condition no one fully understood. He could be laughing with you one moment, then go utterly blank the next, asking who you were, where he was, what day it was. Sometimes he forgot his own name. Sometimes he forgot Alex was his brother. The officers had discovered it in his second year and forced him out of the corps. No place for someone who might forget how to fight mid-battle. He’d left quietly, with that same untroubled smile, as if it didn’t matter. But Christa had seen his hands trembling.

She’d loved him. She still loved him. Every damn person in the 104th knew it—how she’d hover by his side with offers of help, a drink of water, an excuse to just be near him. He never noticed. He never understood. And now, sitting in this dark theatre while the screen flickered to life, she wished with all her heart that he could be here, that his mind could hold onto this moment, onto her.

The screen blazed with images. At first it was familiar—the fall of Wall Maria, the titans’ horror. Then it changed. They saw themselves, older, in uniform, screaming. Trost District in flames. Eren, bloody and raving, a titan’s hand. Gasps ripped through the room as his severed arm steamed and regrew. Jean vomited. Reiner Braun went pale as a corpse, though no one yet knew why.

Christa couldn’t look away. She watched her own future self shed the name Christa like a snake’s skin, becoming Historia Reiss, queen of something broken. She saw Ymir’s true form, the agony in her eyes. Tears slid down her cheeks. All the while, a single thought echoed: Lucas won’t remember any of this. Even if she survived, even if she found him again, he would look at her with those star-bright eyes and ask, “Do I know you?”

Sasha Braus sat frozen, her hunger forgotten. She had always loved Alex’s quiet strength, the way he moved like a predator, the raw talent that placed him at the top of the class. Right now, though, Alex’s face was a mask of torment. He stared at the screen where an older version of himself didn’t exist—only a memory reel that must have cut out the private moments. But Sasha saw his hands grip the armrests so hard the wood creaked. He was thinking about Lucas, she knew. The brother who might already be forgetting him.

The visions grew darker. Marco’s death—half-eaten, betrayed. Jean let out a sob that tore through the silence. Annie exposed as the Female Titan, crystalline tears freezing her face. Bertholdt and Reiner, the warriors, confessing with hollow eyes. The chaos, the screams, the endless deaths. Connie’s village transformed into mindless titans. They all knew loss now, in this cursed theatre, and there was no comfort to be found.

And then, something strange: a brief, flickering image of a blond boy laughing under a tree, his blue eyes turned skyward, so vivid and alive that everyone in the room inhaled at once. Lucas. But it was gone before they could understand, replaced by more fire and blood. Christa’s heart clenched until she thought she’d stop breathing. “No,” she whispered. “Please…”

When the screen finally went dark and the voice announced they would be sent back—to their time, with their knowledge—the room stayed heavy with sorrow. No one moved. Alex was the first to stand, his voice raw but steady. “We have to remember,” he said. “All of it. Even if he can’t.”

Christa nodded, wiping her eyes. She walked toward Alex, and for a moment, they shared a look that said everything. Back home, Lucas was probably sitting by a window, calmly forgetting the names of clouds. She would go to him. She would tell him she loved him, over and over, for as long as it took. And maybe, just maybe, one of those times would stick.

The white light returned, swallowing them whole, and the theatre emptied into silence once more.