I use quite a bit of idioms, similes and metaphors like this.
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The laundry flapped gently in the wind, threads of white and beige rising like sails against the sun. The day was unseasonably warm for early spring, and the breeze carried with it the smell of earth—damp soil, cut grass, and the faintest trace of firewood smoke from neighboring chimneys.
Carla Yeager hummed softly as she strung another shirt on the line. Her hands moved automatically, fingers twisting clothespins, tightening creases. Years of repetition had trained her movements into rhythm. It gave her time to think. Time to remember.
Grisha had always been impulsive.
Not reckless—but passionate in that quiet, unsettling way of his. One moment absent for days on house calls. The next, standing in the doorway, wind-tousled and wild-eyed, saying: "I brought someone with me."
That someone had been Kaelen.
She hadn't asked many questions at first. What could she say? The boy looked half-starved. Haunted. Lost. But he had bowed his head politely, introduced himself in a voice that barely rose above the wind, and thanked her for letting him stay.
He hadn't smiled, not really. Not like Eren did. Not like children were supposed to.
Adopting him had been sudden—but not wrong.
Maybe it had been instinct. Maybe pity. Maybe the unspoken loneliness in her husband's voice. Or maybe it was just the way Kaelen had looked at Eren—not with envy, not with expectation—but with something eerily calm. Like he had already decided what kind of brother he'd be before Eren had even spoken.
That unnerved her at first. Children were supposed to be impulsive. Loud. Messy.
Kaelen was quiet. Too quiet.
But he was also gentle. Clean. Helpful.
He never disobeyed. Never raised his voice. Never cried. Never begged for toys or sweets. That terrified her more than if he had.
Over the years, Carla's fear turned to purpose.
She wouldn't let the boy remain distant forever. He was hers now. Her child. Not just Grisha's project or Eren's protector.
Hers.
So, she cooked for him, even when he didn't ask. Washed his worn clothes with extra care. Offered comfort he never sought. Praised him for things most mothers wouldn't notice—how well he folded blankets, how carefully he closed doors.
And slowly, almost imperceptibly, he folded himself into the Yeager household like a shadow that finally chose to stay.
"Hang the towels next," she said, glancing sideways.
Mikasa stood beside her, small hands delicately holding a damp sheet. She was always quiet, but not like Kaelen. With Mikasa, the silence came from trauma. With Kaelen… it came from somewhere older.
"Like this?" Mikasa asked.
"Yes, just like that. Perfect."
Mikasa gave the faintest smile, then went back to her task.
Beneath the tree nearby, Kaelen lay sprawled across the grass, silver hair wild and tousled like a windswept thistle. His eyes were closed, arms folded beneath his head. He breathed slowly, evenly, like someone practicing rest rather than experiencing it.
If Carla didn't know better, she'd think he was asleep.
But Kaelen rarely truly slept.
A loud grunt interrupted the calm.
"Ugh—Kaelen! You're just gonna lie there while I fall?!"
Carla glanced over just in time to see Eren dangling from the low branch of the oak tree, legs swinging awkwardly as he tried to pull himself higher.
Kaelen didn't even open his eyes.
"You're not even close to falling," he said dryly.
"Not the point!"
"You're loud. That's the point."
Eren let out a groan of frustration. "You're the worst older brother in history. Seriously."
Kaelen cracked one eye open, staring up at the clouds.
"Is that why you're here, bothering me, instead of playing with your little girlfriend?"
Carla suppressed a smile. Mikasa went still, hiding behind a towel.
Eren dropped from the branch with a heavy thud.
"She's not my girlfriend," he mumbled, cheeks red.
"She's literally folding laundry with Mom," Kaelen replied. "You could've helped."
"She wanted to help."
"And Armin?"
"Nowhere to be found. Probably reading."
Kaelen finally sat up, brushing grass from his sleeves.
"I see. Everyone's busy except you."
Eren crossed his arms. "I'm trying to have fun."
Kaelen stretched, spine cracking as he stood.
"Do you want a piggyback ride?" he asked mockingly. "Or should I rock you to sleep?"
"I'm not five anymore," Eren muttered.
Kaelen smirked. "Could've fooled me."
Carla watched the exchange fondly. Their dynamic was strange, but it worked. Eren was fire. Kaelen was steel. One sparked constantly; the other absorbed every blow without flinching.
Still, sometimes she caught Grisha watching Kaelen with narrowed eyes—not out of distrust, but confusion. As if he were trying to remember why he'd adopted the boy in the first place. As if the decision had come from somewhere outside himself.
Carla never questioned it. Families weren't always formed by logic.
Sometimes, they were just people choosing to stay.
"I want to hear a story," Eren said suddenly, dropping to sit beside Kaelen beneath the tree.
Kaelen tilted his head.
"Now?"
"Yeah. Come on. You always tell good ones."
Kaelen seemed to consider the request.
Then nodded.
"This time…" he said softly, "how about a story about the sky?"
Eren perked up. "The sky?"
Kaelen pointed upward, toward the blue stretching endlessly beyond the Walls.
"That sky. The one we never reach. The one that isn't covered in stone, or guarded by Titans. The one people say is endless."
Eren stared up, silent now.
Kaelen continued.
"Once, there was a boy who believed the sky wasn't real. He thought it was just a painted ceiling—that the clouds were illusions. Stories for fools."
Eren blinked. "But… the sky is real."
Kaelen smiled faintly. "He didn't know that. Because he'd only ever seen it through cracks in the stone."
Eren frowned. "Did he ever get out?"
Kaelen didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he looked to the horizon—where the Wall met the sky, and the sky met something else.
"I don't know," he whispered. "That part hasn't been written yet."
...
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[Auther: Ah, positive reinforcement. It's a powerful thing, y'know? It's the reason why this chapter came out so fast.]