Do you see me still?
The letter stayed tucked under her pillow every night. She used to keep it on her person at all times, tucked into her jacket or breast pocket. But when someone bumped into her and nearly spilled tea across her clothes. She was far less worried about decorum as a perceived insult against the Queen, she was concerned with Ymir.
She had torn open the note again to check for no stains or smudges on her writing; even if cursive was all she had left, she would not let her love disappear again. So Historia kept it safely in her bed, never bothering to answer her husband when he asked what paper she read like a prayer each morning.
It was a silent plea to wherever Ymir’s spirit went, a quiet hope that out there was still the woman who had seen beneath her facade and loved her anyway. Was the woman who shook the ground under her feet still here? Was she still watching, still standing beside Historia as she had stood by Krista?
If she closed her eyes and imagined, sometime she could see freckles and a wry smile beside her, feel hands intertwined.