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It started out as a red ball of yarn. A possibility, nothing more.
Of the few gifts he received that year, it was the one he cared about the least. It was the most useful, yes, but for a child, that hardly mattered when ranking birthday presents. The small piece of chocolate his parents had somehow managed to obtain was much better, in his opinion. It didn't matter that his mother had spent hours knitting it together, stitch by stitch. For him, it was just a necessity, an unsubtle hint to dress himself warmer when he went out. At the end of the day, it was tossed into a corner and forgotten.
He complained and whined to his mother, refusing to see reason. The other boys didn't have to wear such ridiculous attire. It was too early in the year for such warm clothing, regardless of what the weather was like. Still, she ignored his protests and tightly wrapped the cloth around his neck, then gave him a hug and sent him away. As soon as he was out of sight, he ditched the winter gear in an alley to be retrieved only right before returning home.
She just stood there, her face blank to the point where he wasn't sure whether she was listening or not. The words seemed to flow right past her. He wondered if she was thinking the same things he was or if, maybe, she wasn't thinking at all. His mind was still consumed with the lecture he'd just been given, turning the words over and over. A part of him resented it-he'd been trying to do the right thing and he couldn't just leave her there, not after his father have told him so many times to try and be nice to her and make friends-but there was also a piece that understood his father was angry only because he had been worried. Just when he was becoming convinced that there was nothing inside her anymore, soft words breathed past her lips. Words said with no inflection, but that revealed a troubled soul.
He was already moving before his mind had caught up with what he was doing. For some reason, he latched onto that one phrase, "it's cold," and determined to at least fix the one thing that he could. As he stepped forward, he unwrapped the red cloth from around his neck. He circled it around her head loosely and, with a final flick, tossed the end across her face, trying to imitate what his mother had done for him every time he left the house when it was cold. He told her she could have it, to keep her warm against the chill. She blinked at him, her face still expressionless, but slowly she lowered her gaze and touched the cloth. It wasn't until he grabbed her hand, ready to drag her home if need be, that she started to cry.
She didn't take it off after that.
It didn't matter what he said, she always wore it, except occasionally when it had to be removed to get washed. He pointed out multiple times that it wasn't anything important. It had meant nothing to him, but somehow, it had come to mean everything to her. She never acknowledged it out loud, but it, and his kind words, saved her that day. When she wore it, she thought of him.
When he thought of red, he didn't imagine blood like the others did. Instead, he pictured her. When she fought, she was fierce-radiant, in a way he could never be. She soared through the air, a streak of red spinning along with her. It trailed behind her as she raced through the skies. By this point, he'd almost forgotten that it used to be his because it so completely embodied her.
They all wonder why he does it, why he wears the same thing every day. The color is the same one they always see, staining their hands and their hearts. For them, it is unbearable to look at. For him, it is unbearable not to see. It's the only piece left of a broken heart, the only thing that stayed behind when she left. Without it, he would be without her.
Some of them know why. They're the ones who've seen hell and survived, the few who know what it's like outside of the walls. They remember her too. At the time, none had known what the scarf meant, where it had come from. They just knew that it was hers. They didn't question it when he stood over her dead body and unwrapped it from her neck. They just hadn't expected him to wrap it around his own and keep it there.
It's been years now, years of more battles, more deaths. Almost none of the ones who started down this path together remain. He still wears it, every day. It never comes off, except when he is about to transform into a titan. Even then, he is gentle with it. He slowly unwraps it, then folds it carefully and places it off to the side. And just like a shell has been removed, his expression morphs. The calmness fades away, replaced by anger.
Every so often, someone will gain the courage to ask him about it. His first reply doesn't surprise them—they had expected something like it—but the second never fails to shock.
"It's to remember her."
"I wear it to keep myself human."
He stands by her grave, staring at the tiny wings engraved into the stone. This is one of those times when the tears just won't stop. It's not because he misses her or because he's remembering, but he cries because he knows it was his fault. If not for him she wouldn't have changed. If not for him, she wouldn't have joined the Survey Corps. If not for him, she wouldn't have died. He closes his eyes and lets the regret sweep through until a tiny glimmer reminds him of its existence.
If not for him, she never would have truly lived.
On the day he died, the last of the trio carefully folded up the red scarf and placed it in the space between their graves. Buried in the ground, it ended as a pile of threads. A memory, nothing more.