The Saint & The Sculptor

At night, the city was a muddy version of itself in daylight.

Lampposts cast a sickly yellow glow over the roads as they navigated their way through the labyrinthine streets.

"You hungry?" Silas asked from the front of the car.

Eren shook his head.

Exhaustion had slowly begun to take him, and his eyes struggled to keep up with the changing streets.

He was hungry but tired.

Too tired to think.

Too tired to worry about eating.

All he wanted was the softness of his bedsheets and the flora smell of fabric softener.

"You sure, kid?"

Eren shrugged. "I could eat." He said.

Despite all that had happened that day, it was Tiana's parting words to him that stayed with him.

‘Oh Eren, I think your mother would be happier if you just stayed alive.’

The words haunted him.

They haunted him because they were the truth.

They felt like it at least.

Was she not the same woman who talked at length so often about how barbaric the contests were, how small-minded their society had be