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The streets were quiet of course. With the sun beating down and the gentle breeze blowing, it could have been any normal day. Aside from the overgrown weeds between the cobbles and the rubble everywhere – I couldn't bring myself to look any closer when sprays of darkened, five year old blood, caught my eye as I passed. The cobbles were paler than I remembered. Was that the sun bleaching them? Or just constant rainfall without any traffic for five years, no foot falls, no carts, no horse mess. Nothing. Humans hadn't been here, I was the first person to be present in so long. I didn't know whether to be honoured or frightened. We had seen no sign of active Titans in the area, but I kept occasionally tapping my gear to remind myself I had it. I could escape.

But the threat wasn't really Titans down here, was it?

Not right now anyway.

I turned the corner and the hill became that little bit steeper, my hands clenching as the familiarity sunk in. So many times I'd run along these uneven cobbles, tripped, skipped, skid along the frosty stone when winter set in, or splashed in puddles during springtime rain. The houses were built into the slope, and it was fun to use the sledge to slide all the way down once a little snow had managed to layer up. That being when I wasn't running home to desperately avoid being late. Or away as the smoke rose into the air. My whole body trembled. I got moving. One foot in front of the other, that was key.

It looked so normal. Just like any other house on the small lane, with an overgrown garden and rusted poles where the washing line used to be strung. Sunshine had peeled the paint, and whoever had moved in had obviously done a lot of repair work before Maria fell. It had a roof, for one thing. The last time I'd looked at the place it had been a smouldering husk, belching rancid smoke into the sky, with flames licking from the windows. It wasn't much better now I suppose. But it looked a lot more like an empty home, instead of a waking nightmare. That was something. I stepped forward and tried the door. Unlocked. Made sense, it wasn't like people had been taking the time to lock up before they fled that day five years ago. It opened with a creak, groaning into the empty space. I flinched. Nothing was disturbed, not even rats. Then again, why would they linger? Not exactly an abundance of food.

I checked behind me, but the street was empty, and there was no sign of movement. It seemed I was alone for the time being. Small mercies. I closed the door and walked through the living room, noting the similar set up to it all; chairs gathered towards an open fireplace, their covers choked in dust. A few windows were broken, some debris from the falling rubble having made small impacts. But it didn't look like the building had been hit by anything bigger. I wondered what the family that had been living here had been like. It seemed like a young family, if the style was anything to go by, and the fact there was a splintered crib in the far corner, by one of the broken windows. No bones though. They might have all gotten out. I swallowed hard, fingers tracing along the back of one of the chairs. Or they had been consumed on their way to the inner gate. I shivered. Stop that.

It was all different, and yet it felt the same. My heart pounded, and a cold sweat was dewing along my skin, only habits of checking for hiding places dragging my eyes around the rooms. I wouldn't fit into any of my old spots now. Not even under the stairs, really. But I guess the monster I was hiding from wasn't there anymore, he wasn't anywhere. I stopped in the hallway, the little door to the space under the stairs staring back at me. They'd painted it pink. Maybe they had a daughter and she used it as a play den? I tried the handle. The door was warped, but it gave after a couple of tugs. There was more important things to be doing, I know, there was a thousand things I should have been rushing through and getting back to my duty. But my heart ached at the idea of tearing through the place. Like I'd be skimming over the few happy memories I had. The door whined open and a small den was revealed, padded with plush pillows all covered in pale pinks, or whites and flowers stitched into place. Daisy. That had been her name.

I knelt and peered into the space. It looked cosy, homey, like a real haven rather than a recluse. I suppose they could be considered the same in some ways, but it didn't feel the same. It was easy to imagine little Daisy playing in there with her dolls, giving them names, telling their stories. While she laughed, I had hidden. Amongst the cleaning supplies and old blankets. It never worked very well. Too easy for Vincent to guess, to wrench the door open and drag me out kicking and screaming. But sometimes he forgot. Sometimes he had already stormed out of the house, and it was Mother who found me instead. She would knock. She would wait until I made a sound, and then she would ease the door open. She would smile and her hair would catch the sunlight. Her hand would reach for me, and she would hold me close once I finally reached for her and took it. She would coo, stroke my hair, and make me some tea. I wondered if Daisy's Mother would have to coax her out of the den, persuading her that the dolls would be waiting for her after dinner was eaten, or after she had finally gone to bed.

Tears ran down my cheeks.

I wiped them away and closed the door.

Daisy, I hope you're doing all right.

I headed for the kitchen, meaning to stride right through and head down into the basement. To not even look at the stonework, countertops or anything. But I stalled. My eyes stared at the spot on the floor and my whole body froze. The air, so stale and choked with dust already, became unbearable. Smoke. It was smoke, wasn't it? Smoke and blood. I swallowed and tried to ground myself, but it was just sitting there, the spot on the floor where Mother had laid. Scrubbed clean, likely not even the same stonework anymore. But there it was. I didn't need a crimson stain to know where it had been. To know where she had died.

We were sat at a table much like the one currently covered in dust. I had been sat opposite her, enjoying my birthday meal, thanking her for the special treat. And then it ended. Everything. The torment and the happiness. Everything. In a matter of minutes, I went from Robyn Sanshi the daughter, the rat, the little girl, to a homeless wretch, an orphan, a discarded rag. There was even a high chair and my heart ached, filling my body with the pain of inaction. I just watched. My little brother died. And I just watched.

"S-Stop it." I begged myself, willing my feet to keep moving. It had been so long ago, I had accomplished so much since, saved so many lives, taken down so many enemies. And yet the guilt burned bright. I shook my head. They were long gone, burned away to nothing within this house, perhaps buried by some well-meaning neighbour after the fact, or scattered somewhere. Or swept with the rest of the debris. I had no idea. But they wouldn't be watching me, they likely had far better things to be doing, wherever they were. I sniffed and straightened one of the seats at the table. "I'm sorry."

Silence echoed back.

I gritted my teeth, counted to ten, and wiped the last of my tears.

All right…

And now the basement.

In my memories the small stairs leading to the small door had seemed so cavernous, so daunting. Like a great mouth gaping wide, readying to swallow me whole. I suppose my mind had started to merge things. I descended. The stairs creaked, complaining at my appearance like always, though admittedly with different notes. Not only was I an adult now as opposed to a child, they had likely been replaced. Still, they griped. Weirder still, the door wasn't locked. It swung open with a similar screeching hinge to the front door, and the gloom below beckoned me forward. Vincent had always locked it. Kept the key on him at all times. It was forbidden to be down there without him dragging me.

I carried on. The air was thick with damp as I brushed past spiderwebs, but it wasn't entirely dark. Daisy's family had made the small window a bit bigger and presumably kept it fairly clean in their time – a little daylight sneaked into the space, creating a kind of silvered light. What had they thought of the place when they first moved in? Had it already been repaired? Or had they been finding small signs of evidence of the horror that had come before? The table was long gone. No rickety wooden frame with iron clasps at the top and bottom, rusted and coated in my blood. There was no small unit full of sharp implements and foul smelling solutions. There was no muttering madman and squealing child. But the memories remained. Our ghosts would always whisper.

Shelves, boxes, everyday items were strewn around the space. Daisy's family, from the looks of things, at least on a surface level, had been pretty normal. A few teddy's peeked out of one box, and another was labelled 'winter boots'. I perched on the table they had brought in, a small desk of sorts where old papers sat, outlining family finances and such. They had been doing well. A bright future ahead of them. It was good to know a happy home had been built on top of our mess.

So then Vincent… Where the hell would you have stashed that journal? I saw you pouring over it often enough, its bright red leather cover so glaring, the pages thick and yellowed, grimey from your filthy hands constantly flipping through or scrawling more inside. It stank of your booze. I brought it over to you once, during one of your slurred commands, you couldn't even be bothered to get it yourself. This oh-so-forbidden tome of knowledge that I wasn't even meant to know existed. I held it. Cold leather, stinking pages, heavy.

But yes, it really had stunk of your booze…

I looked around the walls, and though most had been replastered, a few cracks had begun to show. Daisy's family had either not known about the extra storage, or not wanted to when seeing the other evidence of brutality down here. But I knew where they were. From the table, strapped face down, or with my back to the splinters, I watched Vincent stumble around. Sometimes for more notes. Sometimes for more booze. Always for more pain. He would lean on the wall, leaving streaks of my blood or ink. The first three I checked, prying them open with an old screwdriver of Daisy's family's, had only old bottles inside. A few of booze and a couple of specimens. They told me nothing but vague echoes of the horrors of my childhood. I kept looking. He was paranoid, but lazy. So he would keep it out of my way, sure, as I was his main witness, but he wouldn't bother beyond that. So somewhere high.

Pity I'm still short.

But at least now I can scramble about, dragging over chairs and such. I avoided anywhere in the eyeline of the door to upstairs. On the off-chance Mother ever came down, he wouldn't want her spotting it either. So that ruled out a fair few spots. And then finally I found a line where the plaster was giving way; between the age and the damp, it was crumbling along some kind of seam.

"Got you…" I muttered, half hoping, half begging. All I wanted was to find the damn thing and get the hell out. Revisiting had its purpose, but now I just wanted to know the present again. The capable soldier me, not the victim.

I pried it open and a blast of dust greeted me, sending me into a coughing fit and blearing my eyes. But it passed and I managed to stay on top of the chair. Bottles. I pushed them aside, but there was nothing else. No. It had to be there. I got another chair and wedged it on top of the first, allowing myself more leverage in the small hidden cupboard. And only then did I find the false backing. Aha. I forced it and eventually it gave way, rotten wood crumbling like cheese, revealing a bright red leather cover. It had cracked and aged poorly in the bad conditions. But there it was. The journal.

Returning to the ground I peeled it open carefully, the pages creaking with lack of use, but still bearing the scrawled notes of a madman. It would do no good to dig through it now, but I had it at least. I strapped it onto my belt and took a second to let myself be calm. I had done it. Mission accomplished. Hopefully it had some useful information, and not just his shitty rambling.

For once Vincent, be a help rather than a hindrance?

All right, time to get back. I clambered up the stairs and pulled the door open, taking a second to marvel at how easily I had climbed back out of that pit. It wasn't the same. I wasn't the same. The scared little girl had grown up and found her feet. I grinned. Fuck you Vincent. I hope you're burning in–

"Colossal incoming! GET TO COVER!"

Oh shit.

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