Work Text:
The evening air in Liore was warm, carrying dust through the narrow streets as Hohenheim walked without any particular destination.
A faded pink headscarf was tied around his head beneath the hood.
It was old now. The color had dulled over the years, and the edges had begun to fray. Anyone else might have thrown it away long ago.
He never would.
His fingers briefly touched the fabric.
"...Still holding together."
A quiet smile crossed his face.
Trisha had worn it constantly. Whenever she worked outside, baked bread, or simply wanted to keep her hair out of her face, the scarf had always been there. It had become so natural that he sometimes couldn't picture her without it.
One afternoon, years ago, she had caught him looking at it.
"What?"
"You wear it almost every day."
She laughed.
"Well, it's comfortable."
"I noticed."
"You want to try it?"
He had stared at her as though she'd suggested something absurd.
"I don't think pink is my color."
"Oh, nonsense."
Before he could protest, she'd untied it and wrapped it around his head with practiced hands.
"There."
He had sighed.
"I look ridiculous."
"I disagree."
She stepped back, admiring her work.
"I think you're handsome."
"You're saying that because you love me."
"Very."
Her laugh had filled the yard, bright enough that even Edward had poked his head outside to see what was happening.
"Dad looks weird."
Alphonse, much smaller then, tilted his head.
"I think he looks nice."
Trisha smiled triumphantly.
"See? Al agrees with me."
Edward crossed his arms.
"Still weird."
The memory lingered long after the laughter faded.
Back in the present, Hohenheim adjusted the scarf.
After Trisha died, he had kept very little for himself. The house was gone now, burned away by Edward and Alphonse, and most of what had once been their home existed only in memory.
But somehow...
The scarf had survived.
He wasn't even sure why he'd taken it with him that day. Perhaps because it had been lying where Trisha had left it. Perhaps because leaving it behind had felt impossible.
Since then, he wore it sometimes.
Not every day.
Only on the days when the silence felt heavier than usual.
No one in Liore knew why an old traveler occasionally wore a faded pink headscarf. Some glanced at it with curiosity. Others didn't notice at all.
He didn't mind.
It wasn't about appearances.
It was a reminder of gentle hands tying a knot without thinking.
Of warm laughter in a home that no longer stood.
Of a woman who had loved him despite everything he had hidden from her.
As he continued through the streets of Liore, a light breeze caught the edge of the scarf.
For just a moment...
It almost felt like Trisha was walking beside him again.