Eren grows surrounded by walls, which means he grows up wondering how the sky looks outside when the sun is setting, wondering if the ocean is saltier than salt itself or if that's just an exaggeration, wondering why he dreams of needles and his father's hand around his arm.

He supposes everyone grows up caged by bricks, but – no one thinks about the world outside. People are born, people live, and people die trapped inside their so-called safety. He's going to change that (he swears it every day), but sometimes – sometimes there are these strange moments—

It's when he's walking past one of the gates, listening to Mikasa's quiet words, that he realizes: if I die, I will be buried.

There's a pause, and he stops, lifting his head to stare at the stone cutouts, where the sun's white glare half-blinds him.

"Eren—" she starts, worried already, but he's faster, more solemn, and even if he wasn't, Mikasa would have let him speak first. That always annoys him, and he closes his fists, closes his eyes. The sun's white circle remains, dancing in the darkness.

"Don't let them bury me," he says, nails digging into his palm.

Mikasa stops, and Eren knows the look she indubitably has on her face. He knows he's being unfair, but Mikasa has always given up everything for him, and she eventually replies.

"Okay." Her voice is calm. Eren feels the guilt weighing as much as his relief.

He inhales the smell of sand and dust, and opens his eyes. Mikasa is staring back at him, shoulders tense and eyes serious, the exact posture she keeps when she's targeting a titan. He swallows, mouth dry, and lowers his eyes to the floor.

There's another pause.

"Let's go," Mikasa finally says, turning away, one foot already stepping away. Eren follows, however morosely, thinking of the marble of his mother's grave and how it's so similar to the white color of the walls.