He quickly removed his mask and protective goggles, then stepped into the living room. A warm, familiar smile spread across his face as he spoke.
"Sister, did you get hungry?"
The room was the largest in the house—bright, spotless, and carefully maintained. At its center stood a hospital bed, surrounded by softly humming medical equipment.
Lying there was a girl, motionless but awake, her pale green eyes locking onto Eren's as he entered. For a brief moment, they lit up with joy, speaking in place of the voice she no longer had.
A breathing mask covered her mouth, hiding the faint smile beneath. But that wasn't why she stayed silent. She hadn't spoken in years. Her body, slowly breaking down with each passing day, had long since taken that from her.
"Just wait a bit—I'll change my clothes first, then make us some dinner," Eren said, using the softest tone he could manage, careful to keep a bit of distance from the girl.
He was afraid. Afraid that his dusty clothes from outside might somehow harm his already fragile sister. Without hesitation, he rushed to the bathroom and changed into something clean.
When he came in, he was wearing an apron over his white pajamas. "How are you feeling? Any pain?" he asked, his voice tender.
When her eyes gave him the usual signal—I'm fine—he nodded and quickly hurried back to the kitchen.
As Mira listened to the clattering of pots and utensils coming from the kitchen, she quietly waited for her favorite daily routine. And finally, her brother's voice reached her.
"Today, the first class was History. The same professor I told you about before—you know, the really old one."
There was a brief pause, followed by the soft sound of plates being set down.
"I swear, he's so old I wouldn't be surprised if he had a few skeletons for friends."
A faint smile tugged at Mira's lips. The joke wasn't all that funny—but she loved how her usually serious brother kept trying anyway, always making the effort… and always failing in the most endearing way.
As Eren prepared the meal, he recounted every detail of his day, as if determined not to let a single moment of silence settle in the house.
His sister had already spent the day trapped in it—and if he couldn't take the silence from her world, he could at least keep it out of this room.
It was the only thing he had left to give.
Soon, he returned with two bowls of soup, the warmth gently rising into the still air.
He fed her with steady hands—one spoonful for her, then one for himself from his own bowl. It was a simple rhythm, one they'd repeated countless times.
And he kept talking, calmly and naturally, only pausing when his mouth was full. It wasn't just to fill the silence—it was his way of making the moment feel normal. Familiar.
Just like when they were kids, before their father died of a chronic illness, and before their mother took her own life out of grief. Or at least, back when his sister was still healthy, before she was diagnosed with the same inherited disease that had taken their father.
Now, as Eren watched her grow weaker each day, inching closer to the same fate, he hated it. He questioned what kind of brother he was—if he couldn't even take away her pain.
But what could he do?
He was built like a giant, strong in every way that didn't matter. The university he had fought so hard to get into, the one he'd entered with a single purpose, wasn't helping. None of it was helping. Nothing could stop the disease eating her away.
The only thing that could make a difference now was status—enough status and money to afford a genetic mutation procedure that might save her life.
But time was running out. And hope was already gone.
After the meal, Eren took care of her needs. He cleaned the bedsores on her back, massaged her motionless limbs, and checked the fuel in the generator—the only real support the university had ever provided. Then he went upstairs to change for work.
The 100 credits he received as a scholarship barely covered her daily care and medication. So at night, he put his naturally gifted strength to use, working grueling shifts as a construction laborer.
Once he was ready, he returned to her door, careful not to step too close. "Mira, I'm heading to work. Try to get some sleep, okay?" He said cheerfully.
Mira looked at her brother. It was the hardest moment of her day.
Every night, at this exact time, she ached to speak—to beg him to stop. Brother, it's enough. You've done everything you could. Just let me go… live your life.
But the words never came. They couldn't.
So she gave him the only thing she had left.
A big, heartfelt smile—one she saved only for him.
Eren returned her smile with one of his own—a wide, comforting grin he had mastered over the years. Then he laced up his worn-out work boots and stepped outside.
After locking the door behind him, he paused.
The smile that had lit up his face moments ago was gone, and the energy he carried so well had vanished without a trace.
It was as if the reality he kept forcing himself to ignore had come crashing back all at once. He leaned against the wall, then slowly slid down until he was sitting on the cold ground.
Suddenly, the giant became painfully small.
Silent tears escaped his eyes, followed by a shaky breath, then a stifled sob.
He prayed in that moment, just like he did every day. Prayed for a miracle.
A miracle to turn his shattered life around.
A miracle to save his sister.
He'd heard the stories, read the accounts. He knew miracles weren't just legends. They were real.
Even his mother used to say, "Miracles can come in any form." Of course, that was before she took her own life.
Still, he held on to that belief. Because believing—believing that a miracle could happen at any moment—was the only way he could keep going. It was the only thing that made the weight bearable.
As silent thoughts flooded his mind, his sobs gradually broke the stillness, raw, unfiltered.
And then, through the quiet night, another voice slipped into the sound of his grief.
"Mr. Eren?"
Startled, he quickly lifted his head, wiping his eyes, ashamed to be seen like this.
Standing before him was a middle-aged man dressed in a blue-and-gold uniform. But what truly caught Eren off guard was the emblem on his chest—Ravencourt Logistics.
"Sorry," the man said, glancing down at his notes, equally surprised to see the broken figure before him. "Are you the one residing in this house?"
"Yes… I'm Eren," he replied, still trying to collect himself. "What is this about?"
"You have a delivery," the man said simply, extending a box toward him.
Eren stared at it blankly, unaware that the miracle he'd been praying for… had just arrived in a box.