Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue

          It was just past midnight after another routine day at the new Seventh Heaven. Ordinarily, closing the bar was Tifa's least favorite time of day. The liveliness of the place in the early evening was a welcome distraction against the daily struggle. When Denzel was asleep as she cleaned the tables and polished the glassware, without him, the hush that fell over the lobby was a lonely one. 

          Tonight, the silence was peaceful and comforting. For at the far end of the room, stacking chairs and mopping the floor, was Cloud. Her wayward beloved, home at last and without worry. He knew he was where he belonged. She could see it in the content little smile on his face, a smile only she could see and read so clearly. 

          As she walked past him to turn off the neon sign and lock the doors for the night, she could hear the slightest whisper breaking the silence. She turned and listened with a singular curiosity, enchanted by a sound she never thought she'd hear in his voice.

          Fascinated, she crept closer to him ever so slowly so as not to disturb him. She didn't want him to notice her presence and stop. It was a calming, deliberately private, and distracted little hum. Its sonorous melody betrayed a familiar note here and there. First remote and isolated, then a chain of two or three, until it evoked a tender memory.

          "Cloud…" she whispered with a slight quaver in her voice. "That's my song. The one I used to play on my piano as a kid. You remember that?"

          Cloud smirked with an airy chuckle, never looking up from his mop. 

          "Of course, I remember. You used to leave your window cracked in the summer, and I had an early bedtime. I heard it every night. It usually helped me sleep. I came to depend on it. 

          "I didn't sleep well in the barracks during that first year of service. I used to hum it to myself at night; my own, personal lullaby, I guess. I was told to shut up by a handful of bunkmates that year," he laughed.

          A tear came to Tifa's eye. She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her ear to his back, listening to his heart as she hummed the rest of the song.

          "It was the little piece of home I held onto. It helped me through a lot. I guess it became a habit." He said with a much more obvious smile, placing his hand over hers.

          At that moment, for all the hours and nights she had spent alone in that bar, wondering when or if he'd come home, she knew she'd never lose him again. 

          "You really never forgot me..."

          "You are the music of my heart, Tifa. You always have been."

Chapter Text

I

Her Vernal Prelude

          Love, like most things in life, is a mystery when you’re seven years old. The world is a haze, all impulse and emotion. That’s how it’s been for me most of my life, for whatever reason. But back then, it was simpler. Happiness, sadness, and not much in between. Not much capacity for memory, either, so I can’t really say that I remember much from those days. I don’t think most do, save for a few important details here and there. The most important to me, the one that stands out the most, was the first time I met her.

          I’ve always been… different. And it started early. I wouldn’t really say anything was wrong with me, necessarily. Nothing that stopped me from growing up reasonably healthy and with all of my faculties, anyway. But I didn’t see the world the way most did, not even like most kids my age. I wasn't very vocal or agreeable. I often didn’t know what I really wanted or felt. And when I did, I didn’t know why.

          So it was that, one spring afternoon in the town square, I took notice of her in particular among a number of other children at play. I was playing by myself at a distance, as I usually did, despite my mother constantly encouraging me to be social. I just liked to watch, I’d told her. Though, in hindsight, I’m not sure ‘liked’ would be the word I’d have chosen.

          Something was going on that day. More people than usual. Some occasion that brought in family from out of town, and for which my mother felt the need to drag me around and mingle. I never paid much mind to those things, even when I was older. But, with the arrival of distant relatives came other kids, of whom there were many. Yet, for the chaotic pitter-patter of little shoes, the blur of bobs and pigtails, the piping screams and laughter, I could see none of them. None except for her, shining brighter than the sun on that cloudless day.

          She was playing with a couple of other girls our age, both completely forgettable next to her, passing around and smelling daisies and daffodils from a nearby house’s small garden. The house right next to my own, in fact. A cute, walnut-haired little beauty in a canary yellow dress. Wide and deep eyes of rich, autumn carmine. The sweetest little smile, and a laugh like a pixie’s playful song. 

          Even as a boy of seven, she brought color to my cheeks. I was fascinated. It wasn’t attraction, of course. Not like that. Not yet. But… there was something about her. Something I had to see up close.

          Slowly, I made my way toward her, ducking and hiding wherever I could. I didn’t want to talk or play, and I had little patience for the cooing and adoration of adults who refused to respect my personal space. I wondered what I’d say to her, or if I would be able to say anything at all. Whatever it would be, I hoped I wouldn’t have to say it in front of those other girls. I just wanted her to see me, to know that I existed.

          As I approached, I realized that I knew this girl. She wasn’t just another stranger here to visit. She was my neighbor, and had been as long as I could remember. How had I not noticed her like this before? Was something different about her today? Or was I really that oblivious? I didn’t spend much time outside, but even still, it would have been hard to ignore her if she had always been as I saw her on that day. And here, shamefully, I couldn't even recall her name. 

          I stood there, closer, but still at a secluding distance, watching her quietly and finding myself strangely at peace where I had felt anxious and withdrawn only moments before. Then, an enchanting melody rose from her open, upstairs window and broke my trance. This was a sound I knew. A sound I’d always loved. Though, to whom I had never assigned a face. It called to her, and with a joyous gasp, she ran into the house and clopped up the stairs, forgetting to close the door behind her.

          Having the same tact and restraint of any other seven-year-old, I let myself in and followed the music. I’d spent many hours listening to our neighbors’ piano from my room, happily losing myself in the song without ever needing to know more. But it had changed recently, punctuated or interrupted by a hail of discordant noise every evening. And here before me, I saw the source of the disruption.

          Seated on the bench, positively effulgent in the ambient sunlight, was a stunning woman with long, raven black hair in a high ponytail. Her eyes were of the same dark, ruby luster. She wore a fashionable, denim dress with floral patches, donning homemade jewelry of glass beads and leather paracord. 

          In her lap sat the cherubic angel from the garden outside, lost in a hopeless fit of giggles as she slapped an unmusical racket on the ivory keys.

          “Okay, Tifa… Okay… That’s enough, sweetie. Okay, okay…!” The woman laughed, unheeded.

          I smiled, shyly holding my hand to my face. A tiny chuckle escaped my lips, apparently just loud enough to alert them. They stared at me in silent surprise, shocked and amused at my intrusion. Still looking at me, and with a smug little grin, Tifa hammered out a few more sour notes on the exhausted piano. Certainly, a more interesting greeting than any ordinary hello. 

          I laughed compulsively through a mouthful of my own curled fingers, pink with embarrassment and moving to hide beyond the doorway. The woman joined in our laughter, giving that same look so many other adults did when they finally noticed me. 

          “Well, hello, sweetheart! Are you lost? My, look how big you’ve grown!” She chimed. The usual lines. 

          As with every other adult, I ignored her, spellbound by Tifa and the adorable curl of her cupid’s bow smile. We heard the sound of my mother calling my name outside, frantically looking for me in the crowd. Only Tifa's mother bothered to respond. Placing her child on the floor before me, much closer than would have otherwise been comfortable, she hurried to the open window and shouted to my mother below.

          “He’s up here, Claudia! I guess the little guy liked my song!” She laughed. I could hear the muffled sound of her sigh and a string of exasperated, unintelligible complaints.

          “Hi…” Tifa greeted softly, giving a little wave and that same sweet smile that compelled me to follow. It felt so much warmer and more inviting when it was at me. For me.

          “H-hi…” I replied in my own stifled whisper, lowering my eyes for a moment. I didn’t know what this feeling was. It was new. Not entirely unpleasant, but overwhelming. I wanted to know her. And I wanted her to know me.

          Within a few moments, I could feel my mother’s feet impatiently stamping up the creaking stairs. 

          “Cloud Strife!” She chided, hands on hips. I didn’t respond, even as she pulled me to her by the wrist. “Since when do you run off and walk into other people’s homes uninvited? I’m sorry, Thea! I don’t know what’s gotten into him today!”

          “Oh, it’s no trouble.” Thea waved the apology away with a friendly smile. “He’s no bother at all, and so precious! You know, Claudia, we haven’t spoken in a while. Maybe you should come by one of these mornings? We can catch up over tea, and the kiddos can have some time together.” 

          She knelt before me. “Would you like that?”

          She was as lively and charming as her daughter. I liked her. But still, my gaze never left Tifa’s face, and the smile never left my own. She was getting embarrassed, but I couldn’t help myself.

          “Well, I think we have our answer!” Thea laughed. She smelled of fresh apples and wild, summer winds. Her smile was every bit as dazzling as her little girl’s. She was the flower in full bloom to which Tifa would one day blossom.

          I don’t remember much else from that day. Just a better look at her well-kept and stately home, filled with simple vases and various, colorful bouquets. I liked this place. It felt like home, though home was fewer than fifty feet away.

          Our mothers chatted and exchanged pleasantries by the front door for a few more minutes while we stood in silence. Me, awe-struck at my mother’s side, my back warmed by the daylight, and my face warmed by this welcoming presence and my own bashfulness. Tifa, at the foot of the staircase, waving at me and increasingly nervous at the longest unbroken eye contact she’d ever shared with another child.

          Mom and I put the rest of that day to use, catching up with her old acquaintances, speaking of things either older than me or over my head entirely. A few more kids with too much energy. Some food I liked, some I didn’t. Some colors, some shapes, some smells -- a mishmash of things that I had no chance at remembering.

          Yet, I remember her. Every moment, every little detail to defy the mind-weathering and graying march of time. And I remember her as she was to this very day, every time I look at her beautiful face. I spent that night in my bed thinking of her. Wondering what she did when we left, what they’d said of me. Wondering if she was asleep yet, and of what she dreamed. 

          My answer came trumpeting from her upstairs window once again. At an unacceptable hour, no less. Another smattering of discordant noise, the faint sound of her giggles, and her mother’s rising and irritable shout. 

          “Tifa! It’s time for bed, young lady! You’re gonna wake the Strife boy!”

          I laughed more genuinely than I ever had in my life. When the sound met abrupt silence and succumbed to the usual chorus of crickets, I curled up and closed my eyes for the night. I wondered what she’d have for breakfast in the morning, if she liked the same foods I did. I wondered if their door would be open again in the afternoon, and I wondered if they’d mind another visit. I’d be polite and knock this time.

          I couldn’t have explained to you what I felt that day, or what I was thinking. I wouldn’t be especially adept at conveying my feelings until early adulthood, long after I’d wished I could have made them clear to her. Long after my honesty and sincerity would have made all the difference in the world. Because, on some level, I think I learned what love was that day. 

          I would see her again tomorrow. And every day thereafter, so long as she could tolerate me.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          The next morning, I wasted no time hurrying next door. If not for my mother insisting that I eat and wash my face, I’d have been there at first light. Fortunately, they were early to rise. Even more fortunately, their door was closed. Though I’d told myself I’d be polite, my impulsiveness tended to win out more often than not.

          At 7:30 AM, I stood at their front door in the crisp air and morning dew. Silent. Motionless. Nervous, and painfully hesitant. Maybe they weren’t awake yet, I thought. Maybe I shouldn’t bother her. At 7:45, when I heard the familiar clopping of her little shoes against their wooden floors, I knocked. Shyly and softly. Too softly to hear, surely. 

          I was losing what little confidence I had. I told myself that I might come back later. But by the time later came around, I’d have probably talked myself out of it. How Mrs. Lockhart noticed me there, I wasn’t sure, but she certainly saved me from myself in the moment. Slowly, with a groaning creak against the morning quiet, the door swung open.

          Mrs. Lockhart fought through a yawn. She rubbed her eyes and gave a tired smile. Of course, she hadn’t been expecting any visitors at this hour. Even with a few stray hairs, and without the full measure of that sunny charm of hers, she was radiant. 

          “Oh… Good morning, sweetie. How are you? Where’s your mommy?” She exhaustedly welcomed.

          “Hi… um… Tifa…?” I squeaked, ignoring her questions. 

          It was rude, I know, but I didn’t think about things like that back then. I didn’t like talking, least of all to adults. She didn’t mind, and her expression never soured. She was nice to me, nicer than most. I returned her smile, as warm as I could make it.

          “A smile looks good on you, Cloud.” She praised. “Between that and your pretty, blue eyes, you’re gonna break a lot of hearts one day.” She said with vicarious pride. I didn’t know what she meant. 

          Before I was expected to speak another word, Tifa came galloping down the stairs,  shoving her way past her mother and standing less than two feet from me. I took a single step back in reflex. 

          Another cute dress today, much like the one from yesterday. Capri blue this time, with shiny pink ribbons and a sailboat motif. She wore a tiny seashell clip in her hair, a wish for tropical shores she’d probably never seen. Her mother’s fantasy or pleasant memory, no doubt.

          “Cloud!” She beamed. “Let’s play!”

          Most other kids thought I was weird, or otherwise found me off-putting. Those who met me were rarely keen on meeting me a second time. But she, like her mother, was very different. Sweet, accommodating, and assuming the best of people despite seeing their worst. She may have only been six years old, and therefore, was certainly naive. But that good streak in her has never changed, regardless of how many have come along since then to betray her trust.

          That may have been one of the happiest days of my life. The first other kid I liked, whose attention I ever cared to have, actually liked me back. And by a stroke of good luck, whatever had been going on the day before had come to an end. Most of the other families had left town last night, taking their children with them. 

          For that afternoon, it was just her and me. There would be no competition. I wouldn’t have to be anxious. For once, and for the only time it ever mattered to me, I could try to open up a little.

          Our town was tiny. Much smaller than most, and far from what most would call civilization. Living way out in the sticks in a community without much money, there also wasn’t much in the way of toys or play structures. But we had our amusements, games, and distractions. And plenty of ways to get in trouble.

          We spent most of that morning just running around the town square, finding stuff to climb on, or slide down, or jump over, or crawl under. Things we probably weren’t supposed to, in ways that probably could’ve gotten us hurt. We’d accumulated more than a few splinters, only to be discovered and removed that evening.

          We were laughing and enjoying every moment, until her dress snagged a thorn in a blackberry bush, half tearing a handmade patch from her hip. A smiling, yellow starfish. Consistent with the nautical theme, and probably covering the aftermath of a previous incident just like this one.

          She went silent, looked at me in genuine tears, whimpering and whining. I usually wasn’t very perceptive of other people’s feelings, but again, something was different about her. Somehow, I knew she was more upset than she ought to have been. The way we’d been running around, the things we’d been doing and her devil-may-care way of doing them, this was far from the first time she’d torn a dress. And she wasn’t hurt, as far as I could see. Yet, she was devastated.

          “Hey… it’s okay…” I consoled, haltingly moving to place my hand on her shoulder. She ducked it, sitting on the ground and holding her knees to her chest. 

          She was red in the face, actually crying as though she’d made herself bleed. I was upset that she didn’t want to play anymore, but more so, I couldn’t stand to see her hurt like that. It broke my heart. Thinking fast, I took her by the hand.

          “I got an idea. Follow me, okay?” I reassured her, forcing my best fake smile.

          She looked at me quizzically, but nodded and followed. I took her straight to my house, to my mother, who had been knee-deep in dusting and spring-cleaning before we stepped through the door. She liked to hum merry little tunes of her own invention when she cleaned, but that gave way to maternal instinct as soon as she heard poor Tifa’s tiny sobs.

          “Oh, sweet baby…” she moaned in wounded commiseration. She hurried toward us, taking a knee and holding Tifa’s face in her hands, wiping away her tears with her thumbs. 

          “What’s the matter, honey? Are you hurt?”

          Tifa shook her head wordlessly, pinching the threatened patch on her dress and exposing the threads left fraying from the cloth.

          “My mommy made it for me…” Tifa whined and sniffled. “It’s special…”

          “Aww…” Mom pursed her lips in a strange cross between a frown and a smirk, playful, yet genuinely concerned. “It’s okay, sweet girl. I think I can help.”

          We spent the next few minutes eating a couple small pieces of blackberry pie leftover from one of the gatherings last night. A ‘snack break’, mom called it, sitting in high dining room chairs while she focused on fixing Tifa's dress from a little stool at her side. She'd said it was a way to ‘get back at the mean, old blackberry bush who hurt her little starfish friend’. That made Tifa laugh. 

          Mom could be funny when she needed to be. Or, maybe she was always funnier than I gave her credit for. She finished the job well before we finished the last crumbs on our plates. She even matched the color of Mrs. Lockhart's original thread. No one would have ever known the difference. She'd always been an amazing seamstress. 

          “There!” She chimed, grinning with satisfaction. Tifa looked and gasped. She was amazed. Delighted. 

          “No more tears, now, okay? It'll be our little secret.” Mom whispered with a wink.

          With a gleeful, little squeal, Tifa hugged my mother's legs in gratitude, staining her nice, clean skirt with her blackberry-covered cheeks in thanks. Mom sighed with blithe exasperation, exhaustedly laughing and patting Tifa’s head. Yet another chore for her labor of love. But she'd saved two smiles today, and that was reward enough for her.

          By the time mom had saved the day, most of the townsfolk had joined the waking world in the usual rush of daily chores and boring prattle. Tifa went about greeting them all, with me in tow. I didn't much like this game, but I did enjoy watching her. She was the village darling, and it thrilled her to brighten everyone's day. 

          We decided to be a bit more careful in our play that afternoon, opting to avoid any further dress-endangering activities. But our caution didn't last long. She tossed it to the wind the moment she saw our neighbor's friendly dog, whom she apparently enjoyed chasing, and who apparently enjoyed being chased. 

          Evidently, she loved animals. This, we later traded for mimicking the hopping of an especially colorful grasshopper. Then, for hours of trying to catch frogs at the riverbank just beyond the gates leading up the mountain path, a little farther than we were supposed to wander. 

          That day, I wasn't myself. I was someone I liked more, free of my usual reservedness and cynicism. I participated in every silly game, shared in her every giggle and her every smile. In fact, I talked more than I ever did. About everything and nothing at all, just because loving the sound of her voice helped me tolerate the sound of my own. 

          We splashed around in that water until the sunset glazed it in tangerine dream, when the crickets chirped their arrival, and the lovely notes of her mother's piano sounded in the distance. That was our cue to head home before they came looking for us.

          When we neared the midpoint between our front doors, she hugged me at length, entirely unprovoked. It took me by surprise. Yet, I did not recoil. It made me happy in a very new way.

          “Thank you for playing! And thanks… for your mommy fixing my star. Um…okay, bye!” She waved and scampered off, running inside and up the stairs with careless abandon. She forgot to close the door again. I shook my head with a smile.

          She was distractible, but alive in a way I never was, even while I was still so young. She gave me a spark that I had lacked, and made me better for it. And she made it hard to stop smiling when I had so recently struggled to start. Suddenly, I liked playing outside. I liked the noise. I liked the bugs, the bumps, the scrapes, the bruises. 

          And I liked her. A lot. 

          The smile only left my face when I heard her father shout at her for ruining their freshly mopped floor with her muddy feet. I winced when I heard her cry. Looking at the remaining puddle of water in my mother's laundry bucket, I considered washing my own, but…

          I ran inside just as she did, filthy toes and all, with complete disregard for all the hard work my mother had put into cleaning that morning. I hoped she'd hear my mother shout at me, too. I would happily take the scolding if it would let her know she wasn't alone.

Chapter Text

II

Her Melody in Disaffection

          Life in Nibelheim was peaceful. Slow. We children received our education at home, each in the way the adults in our lives found best. It was our parents’ job to prepare us for whatever they thought adult life might bring in the most general sense. Morals and ethics. Mathematics, the written word. History, to whatever degree the grownups could research and convey in our isolated and limited existence. For some, the arts. Tifa’s mother had her music, and before long, she began to pass it on to her daughter.

          Beyond those lessons and various chores, the unfilled hours were ours to do with as we pleased. The adults let children be children. Even as small as our community was, the way they saw it, the problems and politics facing the town were not yet ours to bear. They lay on the other side of an important milestone in our lives. Until that milestone came calling, these earliest years were to remain as simple, pleasant, and innocent as we could make them. Because it would be to these years that we would look when we thought of home and found it a place worth preserving. 

          It was an unwritten tradition that, at the age of thirteen or fourteen, the village boys would leave town in mass exodus in the fall. Some to find jobs and earn money, some to pursue education, some simply to figure out who they were and wanted to be. Depending on the state of the world, some went to war. Some would never return, but the town did this in faith that most would remember their roots and loyalty.

          By that same tradition, in the fashion of most rural communities, the girls usually stayed behind and learned to be homemakers. Learning to sew, to cook, to clean, to garden. To maintain a house and make it a proper home. It was a very old-fashioned way to live, rife with unreasonable expectations, limitations, and without much room for personal exploration. Certain to meet with resistance by a new generation someday, even though it sustained us.

          There were exceptions on both sides, of course. Some with no patience for tradition, and some who simply couldn’t comply for one reason or another. But for the most part, that was the way of things. And it was why our play, as children, was an important job. These cherished memories, memories of those loved ones who would remain in the village, would call us home to keep and protect what was ours. To live and settle down for those who mattered most to us. For neighbors, for family, for friendship.

          For love.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          Tifa and I grew close that spring, and closer still that summer. Many more hours chasing various animals, many footprints left in the riverbed, fireflies and frogs caught and released. Quite a few play dates arranged by our mothers, too, which were just an excuse for them to gab and gossip while we would spend the day doing what we were going to do anyway. It became routine, but I cherished every moment of it. 

          She was the only one who had ever been able to draw me out of my shell. She was my best friend, and every second I could spend alone with her was a second well spent. But our time alone wouldn’t last. Every autumn, the social landscape would change. And, universally adored as she was, she made friends fast.

          When the leaves began to change and fall, the kids who remained in the village always lost someone to the tradition that drove us apart. Friends, brothers, cousins. Every year, there were always shoes to fill and loneliness to ease. Always strangers who suddenly became acquainted, and familiar faces that became a little closer. One of those familiar faces made his way into our fold well before the last of the wayfarers left. I wished he’d gone running to someone else.

          One morning, Tifa was waiting at my front door, as she often did. It always made me happy to see her waiting for me, just as I did for her on that first morning of our friendship. Today, though, it was different. He was with her, standing at a fair distance behind her, only to close the distance the moment he saw me, standing between us and aggressively thrusting his open hand toward me.

          “Hiya!” He greeted, flashing his most annoying grin. I stared at his hand and hesitantly shook it.

           “Hey…” I muttered.

          Emilio. The general store owner’s kid. I never liked him. He wasn’t a bad kid, or anything. He just bugged me. Any time mom had to do a little shopping and insisted on taking me along, he was always there with this same explosive greeting of his. The adults couldn’t get enough of it, of course. They found him 'cute as a button'. And he certainly was friendly, but in that overly persistent, enthusiastic way that just can’t take no for an answer.

          “Emilio’s gonna play today!” Tifa chirped. “We’re gonna go climb trees! Emilio’s really good! He says he can get all the way to the top of the tall one at the riverbank! Wanna come?”

          She was thrilled to have another friend. But… ‘wanna come’? She was… my friend. I… I had her first. That wasn’t fair of me, I know that now. I never ‘had’ her, nor could I ‘have’ what she wasn’t inclined for me to keep. I just… I dunno. It was another feeling I didn’t understand. And I didn’t like this one. 

          It wasn’t even the idea of spending time with Emilio that bothered me. I just felt inside the way that I used to feel. The way that only stopped when I started playing with her, when it was just the two of us. With him around, or any other kid who wasn’t her, I felt like I couldn’t be me anymore. At least, not the version of me that I liked.

          “Oh…okay…” I stammered. I must have looked sad, because her expression changed to one somewhere between concern and disappointment. I liked that even less. I was being selfish, and I hated myself for it.

          “I mean… yeah, okay! Sounds fun!” I forced myself to smile, and she smiled in turn. Though reluctantly, I would try my best for her. Her happiness mattered to me more than my own. 

          However, try as I might, it became too much to bear. It turned out that he wasn’t just bragging. He really was that good. We’d only made it up a few branches high. But he, with speed that just didn’t seem possible, wound up looking down on us from a dizzying height near the apex of its canopy. Wearing a smug grin of self-satisfaction that I found repugnant and unnecessary. I couldn’t help but feel jealous.

          She was amazed, cheering and clapping her hands. I desperately wanted to share her happiness and take my place in the fun they were having, but I couldn’t. As open-minded and sociable as I tried to be, I still didn’t like him. Just the same as I didn’t like most other kids. I didn’t want to be just another friend. I wanted to be… I don’t know. Special. Like she was to me.

          In the end, I only cared about her. It turned into a competition, and it shouldn't have been. That’s definitely not how she saw it. It probably wasn’t even how he saw it, but that’s what it was to me. And I just couldn’t compete.

          The farther the sun lowered, the further my heart sank. In the twilight, they were still frolicking and having all the fun she and I used to have. All the same games, the same elation that had finally liberated me from the shackles of my own mind. Yet, I began to fall behind them, quieter and colder. A spectator. Had they forgotten about me? 

          Had she forgotten?

          When he finally left, he turned to wave. He was shouting something. Probably ‘goodbye’, or ‘see you tomorrow’. Probably to me just as much as to her. Just because I didn’t like him didn’t mean he didn’t like me. Whatever the case, I didn’t hear it. All sound was muffled. The world was turning gray. I had ice in my stomach, my throat was tightening. I felt terrible, and I was floating tears.

          None the wiser, she was smiling at me wider than I’d ever seen her smile before. Speaking to me with celebration and excitement that she intended for me to share. But I couldn’t hear her, either. 

          It wasn’t until she frowned, obviously saddened by my lack of response and now unambiguous dejection, that my hearing returned.

          “Cloud… are you okay? What’s the matter?” She asked with a slight whine, brow furrowed with concern.

          I tried to find the right words. But, as usual, they eluded me. I knew I wasn’t okay, but I didn’t know why. I never knew why. Moreover, I knew that it wasn’t okay that I wasn’t okay. And I didn’t know what to tell her. I could only manage the smallest collection of syllables possible.

          “I gotta…go… I’m sorry…” I said, obviously wounded and hardly above a whisper. Before she could respond, I turned and ran home. 

          I thought I heard her call after me, but I was too afraid to look back. I knew I was ruining her good day, but I couldn’t stop myself. The tears had paused by the time I got home, but I was crushed. I had shut down, and I wouldn’t be opening up again for the rest of the night. Despite my mother’s best efforts, I didn’t eat dinner that night. And I didn’t speak a word. 

          Thankfully, she eventually decided to leave it be. Or, put a pin in it for later, at least. More often than not, she didn’t understand the source of my moodiness any more than I did. But she had at least learned that it did neither of us any good to pry. She certainly wasn’t laissez-faire about my mental state. But there was only so much she could do, and she knew when to back off.

          I lay in bed that night letting loose the tears that hadn’t yet found their way to my eyes, listening hard for the sound of the Lockhart family piano. From her cracked window, I could hear the slowest, faintest keystrokes. Discordant as always, but calm, isolated, and depressed. Like musical teardrops on a still lake of silence.

          Suddenly, the sound came to a stop. I could hear voices. Muffled and wordless, but enough to understand. Her mother sounded terribly concerned. Tifa's voice whined and cracked, stuttered. And then… sobs… sobs veiled in the calming hiss of her mother’s consulate shushing. She was crying. 

          I… I made her cry. 

          I hurt her. 

          I felt like a monster. 

          …Why was I like this?

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          I spent the next few days indoors, returning to my old habits. She did the same for the entire next day. I really had hurt her, more than I had anticipated or bothered to consider when I ran. I’d never felt more guilty in my life. 

          Every day thereafter, I looked outside and saw her with him. Having an absolute blast, as though I never mattered. That was enough to keep me hermited away and out of the sunlight, and it made for a sharp decline in what had been a great improvement in my mood over the past couple of months. Naturally, my mother was concerned, and she wasn’t going to remain quiet about it forever.

          I was lying in my bed, facing away from the window, and trying to focus on coloring. Trying my absolute best to block out their laughter and shouting nearby. Then, mom spoke up.

          “Cloud, honey…” she said with a touch of exhausted annoyance in her voice. “Why don’t you go play?”

          “...I don’t wanna.” I defiantly spat, pouting and turning away from her.

          She huffed with irritation. “I’m sure Tifa misses you!”

          “...I don’t think she does. She has a new friend now.”

          “That Emilio boy? He’s so nice, though! And I’m sure he likes you, too. He always says hi to you at the store, doesn’t he? I bet you two would have a lot of fun with him!” She smiled, trying her best to be encouraging.

          I had no response that I wished to speak aloud. I groaned at length, punctuated with a pantomime sob. With a somewhat jovial revelation, her tone suddenly made a patronizing shift that I didn’t much appreciate. 

          “Oh, honey… Are you jealous?” she asked in a pitying croon, a perplexing smile creeping across her lips. “That’s so sweet…”

          She’d assumed my answer before I even had the chance to give it. I turned fire red, frowning with facial muscles I didn’t know I had. 

          “Stop teasing me! I just… I don’t like him, okay?”

          “Cloud, it’s okay…” Another shift of tone. She shouldn’t have made light of it like that. It may have been trivial and cute to her, but it wasn’t to me. She realized that.

          “Just leave me alone, alright?” I whined, clutching my pillow and curling into it, burying my face with humiliation.

          “Okay…” she sighed. “But Cloud, can I just… can I give you a little advice? You can’t choose her friends for her. But what you can do is be the best friend you can be. You can be your best self and shine bright. So bright, she can’t help but notice. If you want her to have eyes only for you, to be as special to her as she obviously is to you--” 

          It was clear she’d been champing at the bit for years to have this conversation, paying no mind to the fact that it was much too early for me to comprehend. 

          “What are you even talking about?!” I interrupted. My anger only encouraged her, told her something that I most certainly wasn’t trying to say. She laughed. 

          “You’re still little, Cloud. One day, you’ll understand.” She chimed with a wink. I hated it, and I knew that she was right. Which I hated even more. 

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          I didn’t entirely understand what mom was getting at, but I understood enough to know that I was being foolish. I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t turn things around. Tifa was different, yes, but not like me. Not in a self-destructive or isolating way. Quite the opposite, in fact, which is what made her so good for me. She was outgoing, personable, and pleasant. And she made me want to be the same.

          She was just a happy little kid. She didn’t understand my reaction, that was clear. If I didn’t understand it myself, she had no chance. Given the distance she allowed me, it was more likely that she simply thought I was mad at her. That I didn’t want to be her friend anymore, and she definitely had no idea what she did to upset me. No clue that she had done nothing wrong at all, and that it wasn't her fault. 

          I couldn’t have that. I had to fix it. Mom was overjoyed to hear that I wanted to try. She, like everyone else, loved Tifa. It wouldn’t do for her own son to be at odds with that sweet little girl, let alone the whole Lockhart family. In hindsight, I’m sure she was much more concerned for my sake than for Tifa’s, but I had a hard time interpreting it that way.

          She had the idea of baking her an 'apology cake', fully intending to do so herself, just to give me an excuse to walk it next door. But I insisted on helping. I wanted to be able to say that I helped, that she meant that much to me. Of course, they’d encounter the occasional eggshell for my contribution, thereby tarnishing mom’s immaculate culinary record. But it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?

          She’d written the words 'I’m sorry' on it in piped frosting, along with a little cartoon of my face. Humiliating, but effective. As soon as it was done and had sufficiently cooled, I waddled it next door in one of mom’s decorative cake takers. I was just as nervous as I was on that first day in the spring, just as hesitant. Mom offered to come with, but I insisted that I had to do it on my own. I wouldn’t want Tifa to think I was apologizing because she made me. She had to know that I meant it.

          Were it not for mom goading me from our own doorway, I’d have probably stood there until the August heat melted the sweet apology treat in my hands. Wearing cold sweat, menaced by pins and needles at the soles of my feet, I could see her miming for me to knock on the door. I swallowed hard, then complied. Almost immediately, the door swung open.

          “Hi, sweetheart!” Mrs. Lockhart greeted more warmly than ever, genuinely happy to see me. “Long time no see! Goodness, is that a cake in your hands? Is that for us?”

          “H-hi…” I nervously exhaled more than spoke. “Um…Tifa…” I’d ignored her words once again.

          Just like the first time, I could hear Tifa galloping down the stairs. As could her mother. With wide eyes, she snatched the cake taker from my hands, avoiding near disaster as Tifa came shooting through the doorway and into my arms.

        “Cloud!” She exclaimed with relief, wrapping her arms around me and hugging me tight.

          I didn’t expect this. I expected her to be angry, or withdrawn. I expected things to be awkward. I thought I’d have to do a lot of apologizing. But she launched straight into a hug, and she sounded… well, she cared. I could hear it. I could feel it.

        “Hi, Tifa…” I finally managed to say.

        “Hi… Cloud, are you okay? I was worried!” She shouted with a mildly chastising whine.

        Our mothers had waved at each other as soon as Tifa stepped through the door. Her mother had immediately wandered over, and they began chatting while Tifa was still silently hugging me. I could overhear them now. Mrs. Lockhart was saying how glad they were to see me. Saying Tifa had been worried sick, watching our house from her window every night. Asking when she’d get to see me again. How she’d cried.

        I could feel a mist of tears at my eyes again. I hugged her tight, tighter than she had been hugging me.

        “I…I’m sorry. I’m sorry I made you cry, Tifa. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it…” I penitently pleaded for forgiveness. My voice was cracking and shaking.

        She pushed out of my grip and looked me in the eye. “Are you okay, though? Are you? What happened? Why…?”

        I couldn't believe it. She wasn't angry at all, not the least bit concerned with her own feelings. She'd only been thinking of me. She was so kind. I didn't deserve this. 

          “I dunno, Tifa… I don’t know how to explain it. I feel stupid. Just… I promise I won’t do that again. I’m sorry.”

          “Did I do something? I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

        “No, it’s not your fault. It’s not. Can we just… can you forgive me? Please?”

        She paused. Our mothers were watching now in silent anticipation. She smiled and hugged me again, and I could feel the tension in my every muscle release. The ice in my stomach melted. I felt warm. I felt right again.

          Mom and Mrs. Lockhart were still staring, now visibly charmed and elated. They were watching us grow up, or something, I’m sure. Sharing a moment and making a memory, but I didn’t like the attention. My face was growing hot.

        “H-hey, um…” My mind raced, looking for an excuse for us to leave. “Do you wanna… go climb trees? We can do the tall one again. I bet I can climb higher than Emilio!” I boldly claimed.

        “Yeah! Let’s go!” Tifa laughed, leading me by the hand and dragging me toward the mountain path. She sprinted, and I stumbled as I tried to match her pace.

          I couldn’t outclimb Emilio, unfortunately. I tried my best while Tifa watched me from the ground, all smiles and enjoying the shade. I got close, almost grabbed the branch he was standing on before I lost my footing and stumbled. She gasped while I ungracefully grappled with every branch I hit on the way down, breaking my fall enough to leave me with little more than a scraped elbow. She ran over to me in a panic, and once she was sure that I was okay, she pointed and laughed.

        I laughed, too. It was the greatest feeling in the world.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          I’d like to say things only got better from there, that we were inseparable for the rest of our days. But life isn’t a fairy tale, and that wasn’t me. Emilio remained a regular presence in our lives, which remained a constant test of my patience and ability to cope. I think I got a little better at making myself known when he was around, not living in his shadow quite as much. But I could never match his energy, never keep her attention quite the way he did. And it was always a detriment to my self-esteem.

          The thing is, Emilio was typical. I was the one who was different. Before long, two others just like him joined in. Tyler and Lester. Each more energetic and goofy than the last. Each exacerbating and amplifying the constant jokes, showboating, and general annoyance. 

          Worst of all, I felt they were changing Tifa. Not really for the worse, necessarily, just… things that made me think of them more than her. Inside jokes, modes of speech, habits. Things that were out of character for me. Things that made me feel excluded, isolated, and alone.

          The truth was, even before I began to fade into the background, I had already been an outsider. These four had grown up together much more closely with her than I had. Their parents were more familiar with hers, and they’d spent time together since before they could walk. Even if I could, I had no right to close them out, and I had no means to claim that I had come first.

          I felt… I just didn’t belong.

          Autumn gave way to winter, and outdoor play slowly gave way to indoor, which only made matters worse. Play became more about quieter activities and talk than running around and getting sweaty, which only served to make my awkwardness all the more evident.

          They joked and laughed about the stupidest things. The immature, often gross behavior for which boys our age were usually known. Things that I couldn't stand, let alone bring myself to emulate. And yet, these were the things about them that so frequently made her laugh and smile.

          I had nothing to contribute. I didn’t know what to say, or what to do. I became quiet, and I never found my place. My presence became a joke, and my silence made me the target for teasing. Dares not entertained became provocation. Unanswered questions became cause for them to speak for me, often rudely, or to speak of me as though I weren’t in the room. The final straw… was when she started doing it, too.

          They were around every day now. And so, feeling unwanted and alone, my attendance became more and more seldom. Once every few days, once a week, maybe once or twice a month. Until the invitations stopped coming, and I stopped asking. I disappeared.

          They were so frequently seen together, and just as frequently making noise and trouble, that the adults came to see them as a unit more than as individuals. The “Four Friends”, they called them. A name that I not only found stupid, but insulting. Because I, the fifth, had started to hear it long before my estrangement became deliberate.

          Even to the adults, I wasn’t a part of it. I didn’t belong.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          While I isolated myself once more, resumed my status as a ghost among the children of this town, I tried to convince myself that it was my choice. I convinced myself that I hated them, that I wanted nothing to do with them. In the case of the boys, that was easy. But to convince myself to feel the same about her…

          I fought myself over it. I tried to see her the way I saw them. She partook in the same jokes, the same stupid behavior. In all ways, she effectively was one of them. And yet… I couldn’t lie to myself. 

          I… couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t rationalize it. It was just different with her. Something was different. I had no word for it then, no name for this feeling that I would have conceded to, no matter how much my mother would have twisted my arm. But it was true. Mom knew, and I just wouldn’t admit it.

        I loved her.

          For all of the mental wrestling, pain and anguish I felt inside, all the thoughts of her I tried to expel from my mind, there was one link I couldn’t give up. One artifact that spoke true of my feelings, and I could never do without it.

          The piano. The music of the Lockhart household, of Tifa’s room, that serenaded my sleep every night. And I heard it more often than ever now. At long last, Tifa was beginning to learn, and the melody took on a new form. A new significance.

        Now, every evening, it wasn’t the beautiful, flowery songs of endless spring and secret gardens that I’d come to love, but simple melodies. Very simple, rudimentary and childish. Something Tifa could follow, slow down, and understand.

          There was a pattern. First, slow but confident in Mrs. Lockhart’s practiced hand. Instructive, without flaw, and with impeccable timing. Then, awkward and disjointed, unsteady, and filled with mistakes. But determined, restarting again and again, each time finding another correct note. Growing, developing. Slowly, but surely.

          Tifa didn’t know, but that was how she spoke to me from then on. Her words became notes. Her laughter became a new string, a new chord she’d mastered, however slow and pecking. Her smile became the confidence in her strokes, the tightening of her timing. 

          Her anger became the notes that rose in volume without anticipation, that hammered and shouted their discontent. Her frustration became the new bursts of discord that followed one-too-many sour notes, the pains of struggle turned visceral and violent upon the keys. And her tears were the softer notes to follow, the melodies that stopped mid-play and succumbed to disappointed silence. 

          Ordered or chaotic, sweet or sad or angry, she spoke to me in song. Told me how she was feeling, how she was trying, how she was changing and who she was becoming. And my heart sailed on its provident winds, blew about helplessly in its swirling tempest, and coasted on the serenity of its flat calms. Weighed anchor in its gray and salty doldrums. 

          Her heart was musical.

          She was the music of my heart.

Chapter Text

III

Her Étude in Disquiet

         Winter was merciful in some ways, and difficult in others. It was also long, and a transition that would ultimately serve to harm more than help. Periods of self-isolation numbed me to the world in the moment, for the lack of stimulation and the absent need to watch the clock. But that numbness made for a very rude and overly sensitive awakening. Come the day that I was forced back into the world and made to face its various and intolerable irritants, the result was always crushing. And the longer the isolation lasted, the worse that shock would inevitably be.

         Winter was a mercy in that, as much as I missed her face and voice, I wouldn’t have to see the four of them together. Out and about, playing, laughing, and enjoying life without me. For a time, I could be alone in a way to which I had grown accustomed. Though, I hated it now. For the first time in my life, she’d shown me color. To see the world in grays again made me despair, where once I’d felt nothing at all. Still, it was better than the alternative, I thought.

         The difficulty came in the form of my mother’s growing concern. Since we lost my father, and I was left without a male role model in the household, she was often overwhelmed by the burden of my care. Not for the typical tasks associated with raising a child, but in my atypical emotional and psychological seasons. I said that there was nothing wrong with me, and that’s what I still like to believe most days. But I knew that wasn’t true, and so did my mother.

         I wasn’t what most would have considered sick back then. No physical malady was threatening my health. My affliction, whatever it may have been, was in my head. And my mother had no way to treat it, no expert to whom she could turn. She tried to speak with me, to understand. More often than not, I didn’t want to open up. On the rare occasion that I did, when the loneliness became too much, and I needed a way to vent, I still couldn’t explain. I didn’t have the self-awareness or the words. I was just a little boy, however tormented, and I had no hope of understanding it any more than she did.

         So, she found her solace in friends. Namely, Mrs. Lockhart. During my teetering friendship with Tifa, they’d grown close. Her concern was more for her daughter’s sake than anything else, of course, but she was very much like Tifa when it came to me. Whatever threat I posed to their happiness and peace of mind, however bad I was for her, she still cared for me deeply. I could see it when she looked at me, though she no longer smiled.

         Apart from her concern for my welfare, and that of my friendship with her daughter, something was askew. Mrs. Lockhart appeared different these days. It was hard to put my finger on it, but something was off. That shine of hers, that charm and vibrance, was dimming. Waning. She seemed tired now. Soft-spoken, of fewer words, and of a much more temperate manner.

         At times, when her father was elsewhere, as much as I’m sure she protested, Tifa came along for their regular visits. We played while they spoke, but it wasn’t like it was. There was little joy in it, and it wasn’t just because of what had been happening between us. There was another layer to her sadness, something I could see in her eyes when she looked at her mother. I didn’t know what was going on, but the more I saw it, the more a sense of dread crept over me. 

         After one particularly sorrowful afternoon, when Mrs. Lockhart went home, I approached my mother. I couldn’t stay quiet anymore, and I’d been waiting for my chance since shortly after she’d arrived.

         “Mom…” I croaked with fear. “What’s going on? Why is Tifa’s mom so sad? She was crying the whole time she was here…”

         My mother sighed, pausing before turning to face me. She kneeled to look me in the eyes. She only did that when she was about to tell me something that I’d find hard to process or understand. I was terrified.

         “Honey… Tifa’s mom… Thea… Baby, she’s sick. She’s…”

         She paused again. My mother had been crying, too. More quietly and privately, but I could see the red and irritated aftermath in her gaze. She was choked up, fighting the tightening of her vocal cords to keep an even tone. A voice to sooth rather than alarm.

         “Cloud… be good to Tifa. Okay? I know it’s hard. I don’t know what’s going on with you these days, and I’m not mad at you for it. But right now… she needs you. 

         “I can’t think of how to explain this to you. But you need to know, something… something bad is going to happen. Like you, she doesn’t see it coming. She won't understand it. And it’s going to hurt her. It’s going to hurt a lot, and for a long time.

         “The other boys don’t matter. Find a way to be alone with her, if you have to. But be with her. Please. If you care for her… if you love her, and I know you do… you need to be there.”

         I hadn’t seen her like this since dad disappeared on the mountain. So serious and despondent. Grief-stricken. Heartbroken. I couldn’t bring myself to ask, but… I felt like I could guess. And I understood. I would change. I had to.

         “I will. I… I promise.”

         “Good boy.” She smiled. A smile of consolation, of mournful knowing.

         That night, the silence was chilling. No music, nothing to tell me of Tifa’s heart. Not even a light in her window. The darkness clasped her in a constricting fold, obscuring her from me in every way. I turned away and tried to sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come. Only questions, and a deepening fear of answers.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

         Before much longer, spring finally arrived, and the other boys didn’t wait for the first buds and green grass to take advantage of it. They, like me, were concerned for Tifa and eager to cheer her up, clamoring for every chance they could get. I still hated them, but in this, they were friends. Allies, at least. For a time, it garnered a sort of peace between us.

         Their play had changed. Some days, they managed to bring Tifa up to steam and successfully help her forget, even if only for a little while. On other days, it was fruitless. All they could do was stay close to her, doing whatever she wanted to do. Even if it meant doing nothing at all.

         I still couldn’t bring myself to be a part of it. I didn’t know how welcome I would be, let alone of how much help. But mom was right. I had to find a way back in, but it would have to be alone. I racked my brain for days, maybe even weeks, before I thought of something I could do. 

         When the world turned green and warm with life, the frogs at the riverbank returned. I was the first to notice, though I didn’t know how long I’d have the advantage. Thinking fast, I stole one of my mother’s biggest jars and got to work.

         Tifa was better at this than me. Faster, too. She was to credit for most of our catches; I mainly just helped. From dawn until dusk, I splashed around in the wet and mud for her. Chasing, leaping, grabbing at nothing. Swearing, most likely not for the first time in my life. Thankfully, well out of earshot from my mother. 

         In the end, I prevailed. With just a few scrapes, one or two bruises, and a back pocket ripped almost entirely from my shorts, I finally caught one. A big one, too. But there wasn't much time left in the day. Mom would be waiting with dinner, impatiently, and probably with a few choice words concerning the mistreatment of my clothing. Without a moment to spare, I ran to Tifa’s front door as quickly as I could.

         I knocked hard this time. Very unlike me, but it was important. It was Tifa who answered, shocked and bewildered both at my presence and my appearance. I hadn’t visited her home of my own accord for weeks. And now, here I was, covered from head to toe in filth, completely out of breath, and holding something behind my back.

         “Cloud… what…”

         “Tifa… look what I got!” I triumphantly presented her with the jar, grinning from ear to ear as though it were filled with precious gems and gold doubloons.

         She gasped and squealed, the happiest I’d seen her in ages. At the sound, her mother peered around the corner. I could see a spark of life in her today. She looked a little pale, but otherwise, she was herself. I was glad to see that.

         “Cloud? Hello, sweetie! What’s… OH, ICK!!” She recoiled at the sight of the amphibious monster in Tifa’s hands.

         “Look, mommy! See what Cloud got for me?” Tifa gushed, presenting it to her mother as proudly as I had.

         “That’s…that’s nice, Tifa. …ick… I, uh…” As revolted as she obviously was, she tried her best to force a smile. Her daughter’s happiness was the most precious treasure in her world right now, and she dared not misspeak and ruin it for her.

         “I’m gonna name him… um… Hoppy!” Tifa giggled, running up the stairs.

         “Oh, Tifa, baby… please don’t bring that thing inside! Ugh…” Her shoulders slumped in defeat. She looked at me, seeing me crane my neck into the doorway to watch her, but eyeing my feet and knowing I shouldn’t follow. She sighed.

         “Okay, kiddo. Come on in. Just--” 

         Without waiting another second or syllable, I rushed up the stairs after Tifa. 

         “WIPE YOUR FEET, FIRST! Wipe your feet… ugh… fuck…” Her shout shrank to a grumble she clearly hoped I didn’t hear. I did. Little did she know, I already knew that word. Among others.

         When we got to her room, Tifa placed the still wet and muddy jar on her nice, clean bed, kneeling on the floor and admiring her new friend within. I stood there for a drawn out moment, watching her watch the frog and enjoying the smile on her face. 

            She hummed tunelessly and joyfully, lost in something simple and pure, far away from the world that meant to hurt her. I stood outside her reverie, within that cruel world she so longed to escape, trying to find the most reassuring words I could. Trying to think of how to care for her in her time of need. 

         “I’m… glad to see your mom is feeling better.” I mumbled awkwardly. It was a start.

         “Mm-hmm…. she says it’s a ‘good day’. I don’t really know what that means, but I’m glad she’s having a good day.” Still humming, still smiling. Still staring at the frog, and in her own little world.

         With nothing else to say, I sat near her and joined in. I made faces at Hoppy, what I imagined to be frog faces. Ribbiting at it. Ribbitting at her, in her ear, until her giggles turned to full-hearted cackles. I laughed, too. I wished it could last. I wished all of life could be this simple, that we could just be kids forever. That I… could be normal like this. For her. Forever.

         The world had different plans. Ready or not, we would grow up one day. Ready or not, one day, our parents would be gone. Sooner or later, that first, bitter taste of the real world was going to find us. Very soon, it seemed, the world was going to break her heart. And I had to be there, to watch it happen and… 

         …and do what? 

         I didn’t know. But I would do as my mother said. I would be my best for her. I would shine bright, and I would be good to her.

         “Tifa…?” I whispered.

         “...Yeah?” she responded at last, pulled from her distraction.

         “...I’m here.”

         “Huh? I know.” She affirmed, confused. “We’re watching Hoppy together, aren’t we?”

         “No, I mean… I know it hurts. And I know you’re scared, and… and I’m here. No matter what. Okay?”

         “...Okay…” she whispered. 

         I put my arm around her shoulder. Her smile and happy facade, which she’d been fighting so hard to retain, began to crumble. I could feel her shaking. A stuttering sigh escaped her lungs, exhaling the last of winter’s bitter chill before she could speak another word. Despair, fear, and feelings she couldn’t even begin to describe, finding an exit when they could no longer be contained. 

         “...o-okay…” she repeated quietly. Her voice cracked and quavered. 

         She hugged me, trembling violently and melting into my arms. With no more strength left to fight, she let it all go. I’d heard her cry the night that I ran away from her. But not like this. So close, and with so much pain and inconsolable heartache. I could feel her agony pouring into me, and I welcomed it, just so she wouldn’t have to carry it alone.

         She was seven. Just seven years old. She knew nothing about the world. She had barely mastered her colors and shapes, and had only just begun to learn those simple nursery rhymes on the piano. No child so young should have to suffer like this. 

         This was a grown-up kind of pain. Too much for her, for both of us. As young as I was, I knew just as little. I didn’t know what was coming, either, exactly. I had lost my father, but I barely remembered. I could hardly even remember his face. 

         It was going to hurt her, mom had said. And for a long time. Those words rang in my ears like a death knell. I was as scared as she was. I felt powerless.

         For the life of me, I didn’t know how to protect her.

         Mom had been watching me that day. She said I had done a good thing, that she didn't mind that I had taken her jar. But… I didn’t feel any better for it. I was just sad and angry. Desperate to help, and frustrated that I couldn't. 

         Ordinarily, Tifa's room felt so close to mine. Tonight, it felt miles away. Mercifully, though, the music had returned. Another piano lesson, and she was getting better. Little by little, her notes began to sound more like her mother's. She must have been proud. They both must have been. I certainly was. 

         Though I would have listened to every last second, to whatever hour the music may have lasted, exhaustion finally took me. 

         I dreamt of her smile…

         …and of her tears. 

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

         Despite the usual warmth of spring and summer, the months to follow fell cold in the hearts of our village. Mrs. Lockhart, much like her daughter, was beloved by many. She was still quite young, herself, by most accounts. Especially to the elderly in the village, who remembered seeing her play as a child the same as they saw Tifa every day. To watch this happen to her was tragic. It devastated everyone.

         It would be hard not to notice the change in Tifa, as well. As her mother grew weaker and withdrew from the public eye, she began to act out. Her feelings, her pain, had nowhere to go but out into the world in troublesome ways. The perpetually cheerful little sprite that everyone had come to adore was gone, colored and soured by grief. 

         She was often depressed. When she wasn’t, she could be temperamental. Angry. Defiant. Sometimes snotty to the adults, where she’d once been so respectful and polite. Still, her good nature never completely faded. She was usually quick to apologize, or got around to it eventually. And she didn’t like to stay upset for long.

         With a force of will, she still had her happy days. However, while the other boys did what they could to keep her in good spirits, they could often make things worse. They were in the habit of indulging her more destructive behaviors, and for a time, the “Four Friends” became a name synonymous with mischief. 

         Mean pranks, some vandalized property, a few broken windows here and there. Once or twice, even mistreating some of the local animals, which broke my heart. She had forgotten her love for animals. Surprisingly, Hoppy had grown somewhat loyal to her after I brought him to her in that jar, despite her mother insisting that he live outside. For her sake, and for his, I released him back into the river one day without her knowing. I didn’t want him to suffer any cruelty, or for her to regret it.

         Unfortunately for me, I was also prone to receiving the brunt of her less amicable moods. As much as I tried to stay close, I still didn’t like to be a part of their crowd. Whenever they were around, I usually made myself scarce. Emilio and the others had grown protective of her. So, whenever they thought I was ignoring her, especially when she thought the same, it could sometimes result in nasty confrontations.

         I’d endured their bullying for some time in silence, not wanting to upset her any more than she already was. They’d trip me, make fun of me. Laugh at me when I got hurt. A few times, they’d even thrown rocks at me. One day, I’d had enough.

         It was a little past noon, and mom had sent me to the general store with a handful of bills and coins to pick up some ingredients she needed for dinner that night. They had been playing along my path, and I didn’t stop. I didn’t mean to ignore them, or anything. I was just focused on my task. But when Tifa called out to me, and I didn’t answer, that’s how she took it.

         The anger on her face and her disgruntled groan were enough to set Tyler into action. He’d waited for me to leave the store, standing just outside the door so he could sucker punch me on the way out. I didn’t even know what had happened until he shoved me when I tried to stand up, sending me sprawling to the ground, and leaving my mother’s vegetables and spices wasted in the dirt. I wiped a stream of blood from my lip and looked up at him in disbelief.

         “What’s the matter, Cloud? You think you’re too good for us now?!” he shouted at me, furious.

         He kicked a spray of dust into my eyes, but I could still see. Emilio and Lester were taunting me, as they often did, and as I expected. Tifa’s face was harder to read. She was mad at me, clearly, but she seemed more upset by what was happening. She hadn’t meant for it to go this far. Yet, she remained silent.

         Tyler huffed and walked back to their group, dismissing me where I lay. I was gobsmacked. That look on Tifa’s face, and her silence, were new. Up until then, she’d at least protested when they antagonized me. That was the first time she’d ever stood by and did nothing. Maybe it was just a particularly bad day for her; I never really blamed her for anything, knowing what she was feeling. But that day, in my mind, they had turned her against me. And I had done nothing to deserve it.

         I couldn't take it anymore. 

         I snapped. 

         I don’t remember anything clearly, but I do remember tackling him and punching him a few times. I remember shoving dirt in his face and hair. I remember the scrapes and scuffle, and the force of being pulled apart by the adults. I remember being yelled at. But most of all, I remember Tifa’s distraught face, her tears, and how she ran away.

         I vaguely remember my mom’s scolding, and the usual apology our parents forced on us, which never solved anything. It may have been the first fight, but it surely wouldn’t be the last. All I could think about was Tifa. I’d made her cry again. Maybe my reaction was justified, maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it all could have been avoided if I’d only said hello. It didn’t matter. Either way, I hadn’t shone my brightest that day, nor had I done what was best for her. 

         I had hurt her. Again.

         When our parents had accepted our apology and I was free to go, the first thing I did was make my way to her door. I must have knocked for ten minutes, but she didn’t answer. Nobody did. I wouldn’t get to apologize that day.

         That evening, there was another piano lesson. Another chance to see into her heart. This time, I saw only focus. There was no emotion in her play, only technique. Her mother’s notes, quieter and not quite as steady as they once were, followed by Tifa’s near perfect replication. I could hear her mother clap and cheer with what little strength she was allowed. But I didn’t hear Tifa at all.

         When it was over, after a time spent considering how to make amends, I fell asleep. A bit over two hours later, to my surprise, I awoke to an encore. Soft, slow, and secret. A new and deliberate string of notes. Distinctive and entirely unique to anything I’d heard from her before. It was touchingly beautiful. 

         She never played this late. Her parents wouldn’t have allowed it. Hearing simply wasn’t enough, I had to see what was going on. Putting on the bare minimum of clothing, I slipped through our open window, careful not to wake mom. There was a raised well at the center of the town square which would provide a good view of her room. I climbed the far side, putting the pressure tank between me and her window, careful not to be seen as I peered around its curve.

         Her room was lit by a single candle, dimmed by a charming porcelain shade with shaped holes that cast firelight dolphins upon her walls. Through the gloom, I could see Tifa seated at the bench in her pajamas, still not much taller than key-height even after a year of growth. She continued to peck out this mysterious tune, perhaps ten notes at a time. At each pause, she would write in a notebook propped above the keys. 

         A score sheet, maybe? Was she writing a song? Her face was carven steel, her gaze trained on her work and nowhere else. She was so focused, so determined. I walked around to the back of the pressure tank and sat on the platform edge, closing my eyes and listening, doing my best to memorize her every keystroke as I remained out of sight. Chiseling her secret song into my mind forever

         She amazed me. Even after all that had happened that day, all the mental and emotional strain, she could still bring herself to do something like this in the dead of night. I was so proud of her. The scrapes, bruises, and humiliation of the day faded away as I sat there, smiling with my whole heart, soothed by my new, private lullaby.

         After she blew out the candle and went to bed, I sat in the silence and thought hard. Right now, her mother was the most important person in the world to her. And the piano was their most significant bond. 

         This was how I could help. I could encourage her, champion her to inherit her mother's spirit through her lessons. To give her mother the same beautiful sound with which she had blessed and comforted us all these years. To let her know that she would live on through Tifa's music. 

         Walking back home, I stopped and stared up at her window, wondering again what she dreamed. I looked toward our lawn and noticed a familiar pile of rocks my mother hated, but could never entirely remove. Apparently, as a toddler, I'd been in the habit of randomly collecting and depositing them there. I guess, at some point, she'd given up the idea of clearing the space. 

         Whimsically, I thought with a smile… maybe this was why. Maybe this was what they were for all along, and I just didn't know. By the time my message was complete, the sun had begun to rise and paint the mountainside with the dawn. I had to get back to bed before my mother discovered me missing. 

         Looking back at my handiwork one last time, I hoped it would still be as I'd left it when she woke. I hoped it would make her smile, and know that her efforts hadn't gone unnoticed. I hoped it would make her understand how important she was, how cherished. And, perhaps selfishly…

         I hoped she'd know it was me. 

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

         “I see you finally cleaned up that rock collection of yours. Thank you, Cloud.” Mom poked with a teasing lilt. I could hear the smirk on her lips.

         I hadn’t even opened my eyes yet. For my late night audience to Tifa’s secret composition, it also made for a late morning. It was the chattering of the small crowd at the Lockhart home that called me to the window. Our mothers were among them, tittering among themselves in delight.

         At their feet, placed deliberately and easily in view from Tifa’s bedroom window, my sign remained undisturbed.

         “PRETY SONG” 

         Spelled out in the entirety of my rock collection, complete with an improvised eighth note that I'd made with the few stones that remained. Even the circle of daisies I’d left at the center of the ‘O’ was left untouched, save for the single flower Mrs. Lockhart was twirling between her finger and thumb. She waved at me, a large and sunny smile of endeared satisfaction plastered across her face.

         Shocked and mortified, I shrank beneath our windowsill. My face burned with embarrassment. Apparently, my sign had gathered far more attention than I intended. But in a sleepy town that was always thirsty for some sort of gossip, it was to be expected. 

         What’s more, they clearly all knew it was me. I blamed my mom at the time, but really, it wouldn’t have taken a genius to figure it out. My spelling wasn't the best, and double letters always tripped me up. So, undoubtedly, one of the kids in the village had done it. A kid who cared very much for Tifa. Plus, of her current friends, all of whom were boys, I believe I was the only one who was comfortable even using the word “pretty”. 

         I shuddered to imagine what Emilio and the rest would do or say once they caught wind of this, and they almost certainly would.

         To my dismay, Tifa wasn't among those gathered. Whatever backlash would come from the others would be worth it if it made her feel better. Even if she didn’t forgive me, if it just made her smile, that was all that mattered. For a moment, I feared that even this may not have been enough. With bitter hindsight, I’d regretted it only a moment longer before I heard the rise of Mrs. Lockhart’s somewhat enfeebled voice.

         “Tifa, sweetie! Someone special left you a lovely little message! Come and see!”

         Of course, she was still sleeping! It had been a late night for her, as well, after all. An ember of hope rose from within me as I peeked over the windowsill, still not terribly keen on the others seeing me. After a few seconds, Tifa’s window opened wide. I swallowed hard, nervous for her impending reaction.

         Yawning and rubbing her eyes, Tifa looked below. When she saw my message, her eyes went wide. She gasped, bracing her arms against her window frame and leaning her head out as far as she could. She was surprised, that much was clear, but I couldn’t really read her expression. Was she still upset? Was she still sad?

         She disappeared from her window in a blur, hair trailing in a sleepy, unkempt tangle. A few moments and an eternity later, she emerged from their front door. Slowly, she stepped toward the sign as the others gave her space. Most still wore their smiles, but she now wore an expression of dreamy puzzlement, as though not quite sure if she was awake or still asleep.

         “Pretty…song…” she read aloud in a half-whisper, only just barely loud enough for me to hear. 

         She knelt and picked up one of the daisies, twirling it in her fingers and staring into it at length, pondering its meaning. Confused, and apparently still groggy, she looked to her mother in confusion. Without having dropped that sunny grin of hers for a single second, Mrs. Lockhart nodded in my direction.

         I flinched as Tifa redirected her gaze. She spotted me before I could duck out of sight, but there was no sense in hiding now. Hesitantly, still wearing the visible weight of shame from yesterday, I stood and showed myself. Try as I might, I couldn’t manage a smile. Her pain and my guilt wouldn’t permit it until I knew she’d forgiven me. I could only hope my eyes would reflect my feelings and sincerity. 

         After a long pause, and with dreadful anticipation, I raised my hand in a timid wave. With an even longer pause, she stared at me with forlorn and distant consideration, the red wine of her eyes veiled in a thin fog of deep inner loneliness and a brittle frost of surface discontent. She was tired of being angry. Tired of being sad. Her posture softened, folded inward inch-by-inch as aloofness gave way to shyness, showing she knew that I wasn’t simply looking at her. That I saw her. 

         She smiled.

         Just the tiniest lift at the corners of her lips, a brief sparkle in her eye. A subtle little expression that said so much more than her usual squeals of joy ever could. It told me she forgave me. And it told me that, for the first time, she realized I’d been listening. She realized just how much I cared, and that I was proud of her. For the first time since her heart had turned cold, for all of those who had reached at the greatest expanse of our love and patience to comfort her, I was the first to truly touch her heart.

         For my complete ineptitude in understanding the emotions of others, a fault that persists to this day, I have only ever had an intuition so sharp for her. Only she could send a message so clear with an expression so slight. I didn’t know what it was about her, and truth be told, I still don’t. But something in her, in her heart, has always pierced the mire of my mind like crepuscular sunlight through a passing storm. And only for her could I ever see so clearly.

         With relief, I returned her smile. Everything would be okay. Whatever was to come, I would be there for her. Someday, somehow, it would be okay.

Chapter Text

IV

Her Elegy in Sorrow

         That day, Tifa and I truly played for the first time in ages. Just the two of us, without any feelings of awkwardness or uncomfortable silences. While I selfishly relived the happiness that I’d used to feel, assumed she actually wanted time alone with me, the truth was more likely that she just wanted to avoid another fight.

         After a long and sleepless night, we had little energy to spare. The skies were clear, the sun was bright, and the air was aflutter with birdsong. It was a shame to waste such a beautiful day, but there wouldn’t be much running around that afternoon. Instead, we just walked, talked, and remembered better times.

         It was lighthearted, at first. Reminiscing about different days we’d played. Antics and accidents, ways we’d gotten in trouble and how we’d been scolded, but how we’d laughed about it the next day. We talked about her seventh birthday last May, just a little celebration between our two families and a couple of her parents’ friends. Apart from the two of us, there had only been one other kid in attendance that day. I had found her pleasant, though I couldn’t remember her too well.

         May would be coming around again soon, and I told her that I hoped we could have fun like that again this year. But she went quiet. Her mood chilled, and she grew distant. Talk of the future, no matter the subject, scared her these days. And who could blame her? To her mother, every day was borrowed, and tomorrow was never promised. None of us knew how long it would be, but we all knew it was coming.

         Tifa was getting tired, so we stopped for a snack break at the well. A couple of apples I’d picked from an unsuspecting neighbor’s tree, and a couple of juice boxes I’d brought from our fridge. We sat there in silence for a while, just munching away and watching the comings and goings of the town as people went about their usual chores and dealings.

         The friendly dog passed by. It looked up at us, wagging its tail and panting. A clear invitation, but Tifa only huffed and pouted. I knew she wouldn’t, but I would have given anything to see her give chase and lose herself in that familiar fit of giggles. She was rarely herself anymore. Tyler also passed us by, which raised my hackles. Surprisingly, and considerately, he let us be. Maybe he wasn’t all bad, after all.

         There was so much to say, but so few words with which to say it. I wanted to comfort her, but I just wasn’t good at this. Thankfully, she eventually broke the silence.

         “So, you… you’ve been listening to me play piano?” she shyly murmured.

         I still couldn’t tell how she felt about that, nor did I really know how to respond. She was still hurting, that much was certain. And I wanted to help her however I could, to say whatever would reassure her and make her feel better. But, at the same time, I wanted her to know how I truly felt. I would choose my words carefully.

         “Well…” I hesitated. “You’re right next door, you know? I can hear the piano from my room when your mom plays. I always have, probably since I was born. So, yeah… I love it.”

         She blushed, staring at her feet. “It’s kind of embarrassing. I’m not very good yet.”

         “That’s not true. I think you’re doing great!” I chimed, cheerfully as I could manage. I still felt terrible for yesterday. But I wanted to keep her positive, keep her spirits up. This was important. I wanted her to believe in herself.

         “...You really think so?” Her expression turned somber again, uncertain.

         I put my hand on her shoulder, beckoning her to look at me. She did, and I tried my best to smile. I would not let her see me without a smile today.

         “Tifa, I like listening to your mom play the piano. But I like it more when you play it, because it’s more special. Because I can hear… well, I can hear you getting better every day. And if we don’t talk that day, I can kinda still tell how you’re feeling, and stuff… I don’t know. I just know that I really like it. And I would miss it if you stop.

         “Besides, your mom likes it, too! I can hear her when you play. It makes her really happy, and she’s really proud of you. And I am, too!” I exclaimed, near shouting, and perhaps a little more enthusiastically than was called for.

         Tifa smiled half-heartedly only for a moment, shortly returning her gaze to her feet.

         “...mommy…” she softly said to herself, trailing off, sniffling, and emotional.

         I could see the tears building in her eyes. I was losing her. Desperately, I struggled to find something to say. Anything.

         “Anyway…what… what was that last song you were playing last night?”

         “Huh…?” She looked up in surprise. “W-what last song?”

         She was nervous. Should I not have mentioned it?

         “That…that last song you played. Late… um… You were playing kind of quiet. And late.” I awkwardly stammered. Suddenly, I felt guilty. I’d intruded on something private.

         “...You heard?” She was blushing again. I hoped I hadn’t embarrassed her.

         “I… I did. I listen extra hard when you play. I’m sorry if I wasn’t supposed to… I just couldn’t sleep, and…” I certainly couldn’t tell her that I listened from the well now. It felt wrong.

         “That’s okay…” she sighed. “Was that the one you made the sign for?” she asked.

         I nodded, determined to keep my smile. She smiled in turn. For real, this time. For just a moment, that same beautiful smile that first called me to her last spring. I’d missed it terribly.

         “It’s a song I’m writing. My first one. I… I’m writing it for mommy.” She stared pensively into the middle distance, twiddling her thumbs.

         “For your mom? What’s it called?”

         “I don’t know. It doesn’t have a name. I just want her to hear something pretty. I want her to be proud of me.” She whined, her voice dipping and fading.

         “She is proud of you. I know she is.” I turned to her and tried to hold her hand. She pulled away and frowned, averting her gaze.

         “I dunno, Cloud… It’s hard. I don’t know if I can do it--”

         “You can!” I interrupted, hoping I didn’t sound insensitive. “You can do it. I know you can. Your mom gives you things that are special to you. And you wanna give her something special, too, right? You should. She’ll be so happy.”

         “I’ll…try.” She sounded self-conscious, defeated even before the effort.

         I wasn't going to let her second guess herself. I hugged her. ‘I’m proud of you,’ I was telling her. But I felt that the gesture spoke more clearly and sincerely than anything I could have said.

         “I will. I’ll try my very best.” She repeated, this time with a bit more resolve.

         “Is it a secret, still? Am I… allowed to listen?” I hoped she would say yes. Even if she never noticed me on that well, I’d never spy again. I wanted to respect her wishes.

         She smiled and nodded. “It’ll be our little secret. Like your mommy told me, remember? About my star?”

         “Of course!” I laughed.

         I was happy to hear that she remembered. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so surprised, but since we’d grown distant, it was hard to be certain just how much I mattered to her. My crumbling self-esteem had overwritten what I knew of her good heart. She still thought of me, even during these difficult times. Even when I was such a difficult friend. Sometimes, I needed to be reminded how much she cared.

         I had started a trend that day. Something I hadn’t meant to, but something good for her in the long run. My sign was never disturbed. Not for the rest of that day, nor the next. It remained for a week, for two. For a month. As far as the village was concerned, it would remain there so long as she wished for it to be there. So long as it restored and maintained the smile they’d all come to love.

         From then on, if a stone somehow strayed from its place, a passerby would return it. When the daisies withered, if I didn’t replace them first, others would. Sometimes with other flowers, sometimes a variety. Sometimes arrangements, more beautiful than any child’s hand could craft. Usually in the circle of the ‘O’, where I had originally placed them. But after a while, they appeared around every letter.

         The village was celebrating her. Celebrating her mother. And in doing so, they were encouraging her. Her practice was no longer relegated strictly to the evening. Now, the Nibelheim square was frequently blessed throughout the day with music. Not always perfect, often very simple, but always improving. And every day, with every performance, I sat at the well and listened from where she could plainly see me. Usually eating a pilfered apple, and saving a second for her.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

         We may well have been inseparable then. I wish it had been under better circumstances, and I wish it could have lasted forever. Tifa still played with the other boys, of course, but she seemed fine setting aside time just for me. Maybe for her sake, maybe for mine. Maybe, as I truly hoped, I really had become someone special to her.

         Even better, Emilio and the others seemed content to leave us be whenever we were together. That, almost definitely, was for her sake. Sadly, as hard as we all tried to make her the center of our respective worlds, the inevitable was approaching.

         Tifa’s eighth summer was a turbulent one. A summer of growth, of change, and of emotional upheaval. Time for play was significantly more scarce, placing her focus mainly on her lessons and on time with her mother, but I didn’t mind. I wanted her to be wherever she was happiest, and wherever mattered the most. While I would always eagerly await her, I wouldn’t dare intrude.

         I don’t believe there was a single imperfect day in the warmer seasons that year. Everything green was at its greenest, every pink pastel, every blue serene, every red passionate. Every day, either cloudless or with clouds only of the fluffiest, most picturesque variety. And always, always, the sun shone down upon us with all of its heart. It was as though the planet itself was choosing to live extra hard for Tifa and her mother, giving a grand finale befitting of a woman so beautiful and beloved.

         Mrs. Lockhart soaked up and savored every moment she could. But her time, she found, was best spent at her precious daughter’s side. Though she grew weaker as time marched on, Mrs. Lockhart became a greater presence at Tifa’s free performances in addition to her usual lessons. She would cheer her on, gently instructing and correcting where she could. At times, she would even play with her in duets. Those were the times that made Tifa happiest. As always, I watched from the well, and her most beautiful smiles always came from bonding with her mother.

         However, there was a melancholy and bittersweet aspect to this bonding, as well. Exchanges that happened in private, but Tifa would confide in me about them later. When lessons came to an end, and often even mid-play, Mrs. Lockhart talked to her about all manner of adult things. Growing up, responsibilities, morals, how to be a good person. Dealing with loss. Dealing with love. Conversations Tifa may not have been ready for just yet, but for fear that she may not be around when the time was right.

         Sometimes, these talks made Tifa happy. It was nice to be treated a little more like a grownup. At other times, she would understand why her mother was doing this, and she would be content to be her baby girl forever. Tifa didn’t want to grow up if it meant being without her mother. Those times usually ended in tears for both of them.

         Emotions ran deep in the Lockhart household, and every day, Tifa’s music soared higher for it. She was getting so much better. Still many years from achieving the same mastery as her mother, but perfectly coherent and pleasant. And especially beautiful to me, as I could hear her every feeling, her every thought, through her tickling of the keys.

         On most days, passers-by would stop and listen. Sometimes three or four at a time, sometimes what could justifiably be called a crowd. From those crowds, she regularly received applause, and she would usually come to the window for a cute little bow. Even as the season drew to an end, what few flowers remained would somehow find their way to my sign, of which not a single stone had moved.

         Every night, without fail, I would sit in that same spot for her late night practice. Our little secret. It was a shame that I couldn’t share my pride with those who already so admired her, but it was an honor to be the one and only person allowed to hear her first song take shape. Not even the other boys knew. Yet, I was invited and welcomed.

         We couldn’t speak, as the sound she made was already risky enough at such a late hour. Still, she took the time to express her happiness and gratitude for my presence. Even as focused as she was, once or twice a night, she would turn to me and wave with a smile. I would do the same. At last, even if only in this, I could truly feel that I was special to her.

         It wasn’t the perfect crime, of course. Kids our age could only be so discreet. At times, her father would catch wind of the disturbance, and she would have to rush to bed and fake being asleep. More often than not, I was pretty sure she’d been caught. She was never reprimanded for it, but usually, that would mean a curtain call for the night.

         My own mother caught me more times than I could count. But, knowing as she was of my feelings, she eventually stopped trying to stop me. She didn’t know what I was doing there every night, but she knew it was for Tifa. As long as I was within sight and doing it for her sake, she didn’t mind waiting up for me. Sometimes, I’d even see her in our window by the light of a single candle, watching me watching Tifa. Smiling with endearment and pride.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

         I never learned what, exactly, had afflicted Tifa’s mother. But now, permanently exiting summer and sliding uncomfortably into the chill and gloom of autumn, the effects were more apparent and dire than ever. Each day, she appeared a bit more pale. Her hair a bit thinner. Her cheeks more sallow and sunken. Her eyes robbed of the spark we all knew, and of the fight we’d all encouraged.

         Though she chose to be more visible these days, she was rarely ever seen standing. During the last stretch of summer, she preferred to sit in a wooden rocking chair her husband had placed by their front door, indulging in one last chance to watch the children play. And even as they returned to their homes and their evening meals, forgoing any substantial meal of her own that she could already hardly stand, she remained there until the sun finally set.

         Of course, Tifa was always by her side. These days, she refused to be anywhere else. One typical evening, once excused from the dinner table, I walked next door to visit. Tifa sat on the ground to the left of her mother’s chair. I sat next to Tifa, and she laid her head on my shoulder.

         I studied Mrs. Lockhart’s face. Albeit exhausted and painfully weak, she appeared much as Tifa did the day she first met Hoppy. Staring into the night, at everything and nothing, and at peace.

         “Hi… Mrs. Lockhart…” I greeted. I always wondered when would be the last time I’d say those words. It always hurt, but I spoke them slowly. Perhaps, trying to make the sound last in her ears as much as my own.

         “Hello, Cloud…” she greeted barely above a whisper, still staring into the waning daylight. She smiled weakly.

         In all the time I’d known her, even on her worst days, she had never failed to greet me with a smile. But even this had changed. It was no longer a smile that embraced life, but one of peaceful surrender.

         “It’s… a nice night, isn’t it?” It wasn’t. It was chilly and unpleasant. But I tried to be as encouraging as I could. I was desperately scraping for any excuse for small talk, distracted by the wet of Tifa’s silent tears on my shoulder.

         “Mmmm…” Mrs. Lockhart hummed her agreement. “I like… the cool air. I like the smells. And… I like to listen to the sounds. Nature… nature is music, too, you know? I want to… hear the crickets, while I still can…”

         ‘While I still can.’ I hated that, hearing her speak with such fatalism and finality. Tifa hated it, too. Her silent sobs shook me. I wrapped my arm around her and did my best to soothe her, but I could think of nothing to say in response. A brief eternity passed before either of us spoke another word. We just sat there, taking in the insects’ singing in the silence of the night.

         “Cloud…” Mrs. Lockhart sighed. “You know… nobody has ever made my little girl smile quite like you. It would…make me happy…” She coughed pitifully. “It would make me…happy… if you would be her friend. Always.”

         “I will… Always. I’ll be there for her. I promise.” I spoke the words with a gravity no child my age should have to feel, looking down at Tifa and hoping she’d at least heard the sincerity in my voice. But she had cried herself to sleep, using my shoulder as a pillow.

         I didn’t want to wake her. But, I also didn’t want her to sleep in this chill. I looked up to find Mrs. Lockhart smiling down at us, gently pushing one of the blankets from her lap toward me. With a pang of guilt, I slowly slid the thick fabric from her legs and did my best to loop it around Tifa with my free arm, tossing it about our collective shoulders like a cape. It wrapped less-than-neatly around her. Sensing the warmth, she pulled it over herself and snuggled into me.

         Apart from my own mother, I’d never let anyone so close to me before. And even then, only when I was much younger. I didn’t like physical contact, but… she was warm. She was my peace. And I wasn’t the least bit anxious. I was just happy I could do this much to comfort her. The question, though, was how she could be brought to her own bed when she’d dug in so tightly against me.

         “She’s a little angel, isn’t she?” Mrs. Lockhart cooed and giggled. She smiled brighter than I thought her capable, but tears spilled down her cheeks. Her lip trembled, and her happiness crumbled. I cried, too. Silently, as still as I could be, but seeing her like this could break anyone.

         “Take care of my baby, Cloud…” she whined through encroaching sobs. “Help her be strong. Tell her… tell her that I wasn’t afraid. And that I want her to be happy and live her life. To be stronger than I was. To be kind, and to love with her whole heart. Tell her for me, Cloud… When I can’t tell her anymore, you…you have to…tell her…”

         I nodded. I had no words left, only this important promise. Thinking back, I wish I could have said something. Anything. I couldn’t comprehend the full weight of what she was asking of me, then. Now, I only hope that I’ve done as good a job as she'd hoped. For all we’ve been through, all we’ve suffered since our childhood in that village, I hope her mother knows how deeply I love and care for her daughter to this day.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

         A few days later, the time had finally come. The skies grew thick with a looming storm, the scent of rain on the air, yet calm and still. Holding its breath in miserable anticipation, just like so many in the village. We did not crowd their home, but we’d heard. None of us had heard the piano that day, none saw Tifa, and the silence was telltale enough for most to understand.

         Mr. Lockhart’s face was the only one to emerge that afternoon, notifying those closest to the family. My mother was among them. He stood at our doorway not long past noon, his head lowered as he delivered the news. I listened from a distance, hiding and praying not to be found, as though it might spare me from what was to come.

         “She doesn’t have long, Claudia… days, maybe. That’s what the doctor said. But it’s… she’s too far gone… I don’t… think… I don’t think my sweet Thea will see another sunrise, Claudia…” He wept.

         He had tried and failed to keep his composure. That was a man’s job in this town, especially a father. To remain strong for everyone you love, and to make them feel safe and cared for. But to lose a wife like her… it would have destroyed any husband.

         I’d never seen Tifa’s father cry. I may have seen him laugh a few times, but when I was around, he was mostly silent and stoic. He’d hardly said more than two words to me in the time I’d been friends with his daughter. He was a no-nonsense man who never cracked. So, when I saw him like that, I knew this truly was the end.

         I’d been hiding beneath the kitchen table when I heard the first few notes on the air. Soft, somber, and not at all confident. This was it. Wide-eyed, I stood in a hurried panic, ramming my back against the table and sending a plate rattling and shattering against the hardwood floor. I bolted for the window, vaulted the windowsill, and headed straight for the well.

         It took me less than two minutes to find my usual seat, gathering an agonizing collection of splinters in the effort. In that time, she’d restarted four times. Each time landing on a wrong note, and unwilling to continue until she could make it perfect. I looked in her window, and there she sat at the bench, wearing a simply elegant, dove white dress I only ever saw her wear on special occasions.

         Her mother sat not far from her, near Tifa’s bed, in the rocking chair she’d called home for over two months. She looked so old, so much older than she actually was. Feeble, ghostly pale, and hardly breathing. And yet, she smiled from her heart as she watched her daughter play.

         Tifa was shaking, her hands vibrating with distress I could hardly even imagine. This was her only chance. With no words left, this would be her goodbye. She noticed me sitting there from the corner of her eye, slowly tilting her head toward me with a grief-stricken grimace. Her eyes pleaded for help I could not give, for comfort I could not provide.

         ‘I can’t do this’, she was silently saying to me from beyond the window left slightly ajar. She couldn’t summon the strength to press another key.

         I would be strong for her. I would help her through this, however I could. I nodded to her slowly, wearing a warm and firm confidence upon my face.

         ‘Try again. You can do this.’ I was saying.

         With a pause, she nodded back. Her face calm, she sniffled, and she straightened her posture. Just as her mother had taught her. Again, with a bit more confidence, just a bit louder, the notes of her private melody emanated from beneath her fingers. But she was uncertain. She kept looking over her shoulder at me, interrupting her melody.

         Over the summer, while watching her and her mother play, I developed something of a habit. First, it was unconsciously, out of simple enthusiasm for the rhythm. Then, because it made her laugh when she noticed it one day. After a while, I started doing it every time she played because I thought, somehow, it was actually helping her. Little did I know, it really was. It wouldn’t be for years that I would learn what a metronome was.

         As she stared at me through the window, I did what I always did. I started rocking side to side, swaying not with the rhythm, but with the rhythm she sought. Encouraging her timing, and her confidence. I smiled, and for a moment, so did she. She took a deep breath and started again. Then, the song truly came to life…

         As I swayed to the rhythm, Tifa’s song grew louder. Stronger. Each note more confident, each falling more neatly in line with the one before it, until the sound reached a crisp harmony like never before. Like a majestic butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, the stiff and methodical scales previously played experimentally and piecemeal now unified in a cascade of vivid colors. This was her heart, I thought. All that she’d felt over the past year, laid bare for her mother and me.

         The song was still rudimentary, not yet refined as it would be in the years to come. But it was clear. Precise. Remarkable for an eight-year-old girl, charming, and touching. I could hear the spring flowers that once adorned their home. I could hear the chaotic joy in her six-year-old discord, now given form and symmetry. I could hear the cheer, kindness, and playfulness of her natural disposition that had lain dormant beneath a permafrost of mourning inevitability.

         Her melody now carried me, no longer needing my swaying cues. It carried her mother as well, apparently blessing her with peace she hadn’t truly felt since before she fell ill. But more than that, a radiant sense of pride. She wore a smile of astonishment and celebration, as though watching her daughter become a woman before her very eyes.

         “That’s wonderful, baby… that’s so beautiful…” she said, or something similar. I couldn’t hear her, but I could read her lips almost as easily as I could read her expression.

         Her words lifted Tifa’s spirits. Whatever was left of her anxiety and her sadness, if only for the moment, melted away. Now, there was only the music. Only the love her mother conveyed and handed down in song. Another dimension of her mother’s beauty that she had inherited, much sooner than anyone ever could have expected. A new angle from which to view and admire her vibrant soul, shown in a light only her mother could ever cast.

         If I hadn’t been in love already, I could not deny that I was now.

         For me, the music ended much too soon. For her, it seemed… it had lasted a little too long. Tifa stood and bowed for her mother in that cute way of hers, as she had grown accustomed to doing for any measure of praise her music received. She was giggling, bubbling and beaming with pride. But the enduring silence stripped it all away.

         “Mommy…?” Tifa whispered, just loud enough for me to make out.

         Tifa’s mother remained still, eyes closed and at peace. Tifa stood frozen and wordless. No more laughter. No more praise. Just the fading remnants of a content, little smile. She knew she’d done well, to bring a precious child like Tifa into this world. She knew that one day, I’d be a better man for it. She knew that I would do as I had promised, that I would keep her safe and well. She had given me the greatest gift of my life. And now…

         She was gone.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

         I watched Tifa approach her mother, my eyes growing wider and my breath growing shorter. I couldn’t stand to watch. The impulse of my blighted mind, as it often did, won out over my love and compassion. I hid behind the well, cupping my ears and wincing sourly at the sounds of her screams and sobs.

         I wasn’t ready.

         I didn’t know what to do.

         This couldn’t be happening.

         I gripped my ears so hard, I might have torn them off. My fingers scraped and welted the sides of my face. My eyes were on fire, my tears like searing magma on my cheeks. I was shaking. Convulsing. I couldn’t breathe, had no air for the sobs that were clawing my chest and begging to escape. My teeth felt like they might shatter in the vice-like clench of my jaw.

         I folded into myself. To say I felt sad, or scared, or distraught would be an understatement, and inaccurate. I was devastated, and I don’t think there’s an adequate word for what I felt at that moment. Despite being completely powerless to stop this from happening, I somehow still felt like I failed her. Images of Mrs. Lockhart in her prime relentlessly flashed through my head. Beautiful, sunny, happy…

         Gone. Forever.

         Images of Tifa assaulted me just the same, and I feared I’d never see her smile again. While I mourned in my own toxic way, her screams and wailing just wouldn’t stop. They only grew louder and struck me with a unique and bitter brand of terror. Even when they softened, even when they went silent, I could not unfurl myself from the knot my grief had made of me.

         I watched mourners march toward her house, whatever flowers they could find in their hands, but I still couldn’t move. Emilio and the others were among them. To my dismay, they were the only ones who acknowledged my presence.

         “Cloud!” Emilio shouted, more disappointed than his usual antagonization. “What are you doing up there?! Don’t you know Tifa’s mother died?! God, can’t you turn off this weird crap of yours for one day and be a good friend for once?!”

         I resented him. Hated him. He knew nothing about me, who I was, or what she meant to me. What I’d done for her. But he was right, and I hated that most of all. I was ashamed. I had nothing to say for myself.

         They left me there, just like everyone else. It wasn’t until all the neighbors had already paid their respects and returned to their homes that I was able to come out of hiding. And yet, I was frozen. Staring up at her window, wanting so badly to go in and hug her. But… they were in there. Looking down at me with contempt, and she was nowhere to be seen. That shouldn’t have been able to stop me, but it did.

         Suddenly, Tifa stepped through their front door. Silently, rather than with the hurried, clopping footsteps I’d come to know. She only looked at me, expressionless. I wished terribly to know what she was thinking. To know if she hated me. If she understood me enough to know that I didn’t mean to hurt her, and that I wanted so badly to be with her. Wiping tears from her face, she ran for the town gate at the foot of the mountain with the other boys in tow.

         What was she doing?

         I followed them at a great distance. The storm that had been looming overhead was now stirring, angry and threatening. Distant, muffled thunderclaps sounded above with a dance of veiled lightning. The road seemed rockier and less welcoming than usual today. Without the usual sounds of birds, frogs, and the crawl of insects, it was a foreboding husk warning us to stay away.

         The other boys were beginning to lose their nerve. But she never stopped or slowed. And she never looked back. Before long, the others had run home. Probably for help, judging from their rushing pace and expressions. Emilio had turned back first. Coward, I thought. I was afraid, but more for her than myself. Nothing was going to stop me from keeping her safe.

         The wind whipped in cutting lashes now, throwing the autumn leaves about our path in a twisting flurry. Among them, something else. Something slightly heavier. Something familiar. I recognized it immediately, but Emilio paid it no mind. He nearly stepped on it as he ran past me, and I shoved him before his foot could soil it. He looked at me with pure contempt, disgusted that I would even dare to follow after I’d so neglected her, but he kept running. Neither of us had time for a fight.

         I bent over and picked it up.

         “My mommy made it for me…” I whispered to myself, my voice standing in for hers. “It’s special…”

         The little starfish patch my mother had repaired for her so long ago. Whether it had been torn again from its new home on that dress along this perilous trek, or if she had simply been carrying it, she’d be heartbroken if she lost it. Looking at that sweet memory in my hand, I understood. I knew where she was going. Or, at least, where she thought she was going.

         There was an old legend in our town. One that I’d heard my mom reflect on not long after my father disappeared, from what little I remembered of those days. They say that the dead wander those mountains in search of the afterlife, that it was their last mile on the earthly plane before crossing over and finding their rest.

         She… she wanted to see her mother.

         But this was the same path that took my father. He’d always had an adventurous spirit. Despite the warnings, despite having a family relying on him to come home, his curiosity got the best of him. One day, he’d gone for a hike up this trail, and he never came back. We never found his body, but it was the last any of us would ever see of him.

         Given half a chance, this mountain would devour her the same way. I could not let that happen.

         I rushed to catch up with her when I saw her turn around a nearby slope, officially farther than any of us kids had ever wandered. The line which the adults in town had drawn for us and forbade us from crossing.

         On the other side of the hill, I could see why. And I could see what had claimed my father’s life. I’d never seen this view of the hills leading up mount Nibel. They looked unnatural. Hateful, maybe even evil. The rock formations were stone barbs that made no geological sense. The wind ripped between its steep peaks and valleys with a dangerous ferocity, and with the storm overhead, it was the very image of death.

         Up ahead, I could see her standing at the foot of an old, worn, and rickety rope bridge spanning a particularly deep fall. I ran after her with all of my strength, shouting her name. When I finally reached her, she didn’t turn to acknowledge me.

         “Tifa…” I wheezed, out of breath. “I know what you’re doing. Please, don’t. I’m begging you.”

         “Go home, Cloud.” She whispered coldly, still facing the bridge with intent.

         “I won’t!” I shouted. “Tifa, this mountain kills people. It took my dad when I was little. I won’t let it take you, too.”

         She took her first step forward. I grasped her arm as tightly as I could.

         “Tifa!”

         “Let me go!” she desperately shouted. “I… I want to see mommy! I didn’t even… get to say goodbye…” She was crying, and a weakness bled through her limbs. I let her go, but turned her by the shoulder to face me.

         “I know… But you have to remember…” I said, lifting her hand and placing the patch in her palm. “...how special you were to her. Tifa, she asked something of me the other night. Made me promise. She told me to tell you… that she wasn’t afraid. That she wanted you to live and love with your whole heart. She wants you to be strong, Tifa. Please, don’t do this…”

         She held the patch to her chest, her eyes lowered in shame. The wind screamed through the pit below, rising in a violent gust that tossed her hair about in a fever. I stood silent and prayed for her to come to her senses, but…

         “I’m sorry, Cloud… I have to… I have to go!” she shouted, running carelessly across the bridge.

“Tifa, no!!”

         Completely disregarding my own safety, I ran after her. The splintering planks rattled and crunched beneath my stomping feet. The bridge swayed in the breeze and toppled me side to side, threatening to toss me into the rushing river far below.

         Regretfully, it may have been the extra force of my chasing steps that caused it. Just as I reached her and grabbed her wrist, the rotten rope to our left snapped, dangling us over certain doom. I grasped the other rope for dear life and held her wrist even tighter as she shrieked with terror.

         “Tifa, hold on! I’ll save you!” My voice echoed from the hills in their spiteful derision.

         “Cloud, don’t let go! Please! I’m sorry!” She cried, her voice crackling with fear.

         But the weight was too much. My fingers, my muscles, were only those of a nine-year-old boy. The wind tossed us about like wind chimes, violently shaking me loose. The weight of gravity pulled at my stomach, and my vision whisked away in a blur as we tumbled. Her scream was the last thing I heard before the world went black.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

         I was fortunate enough to wake up no worse for the wear at the foot of the gap. Dazed and dizzy, but somehow, only with scraped knees to show for it. Tifa was not so lucky. She lay unconscious less than thirty feet from me, near a gathering of low stones dashed in a small spray of blood. Her blood.

         “Tifa! Tifa, hang on!” I scrambled to my feet, slid to my stinging and tattered knees at her side.

         It was worse than I thought. Blood was seeping in a slow, steady stream from just above her left ear. She’d hit her head. She was unconscious. I couldn’t tell if she was breathing. She was fading fast, and she probably didn’t have long.

         I was stunned. Lost. I had no idea what to do, and no chance of saving her. My eyes glazed over in hot tears, my lips quivered, my breath escaping me in small puffs of shock and disbelief.

         “T-Tifa… Tifa…?” I called softly, nudging her shoulder.

         Nudging turned to shaking. “Tifa! Wake up! Tifa, Please! TIFA!!”

         My voice echoed from the mountain walls. I screamed for help, screamed her name in crushing sorrow, but there’d be no chance of anyone hearing. No one was coming, and even if they were, they’d never make it in time.

         She looked fragile. A tiny, porcelain doll too brittle to move. And yet, I gathered her in my arms and pressed her head to my chest, soaking my shirt in the life still seeping from her. I don’t think I’ve ever cried quite like that before or since.

         “No…no…no…” I repeated, more sobs than words, holding her tight and rocking with mounting misery. My face was soaked in tears, dripping from my nose and at the corners of my lips. “Why… what did I do… I couldn’t…” The words clumsily fell from my lips one at a time, with cumbersome utterance. Stifled by breathless, quaking sobs. I thought I might pass out.

         Just then, to my shock and disbelief, her father and Emilio rounded a nearby corner. She was saved. She’d make it. She would.

         “Help! Please, help! She’s gonna die!” I cried.

         Her father angrily shoved me away and picked her up.

         “Why did you do that, Cloud?!” Emilio shouted at me in anger. “Why did you tell her to come here?! Her mom isn’t here! Why would you lie like that?! What’s wrong with you?!”

         “I…I…” I was speechless.

         He was lying. He didn’t want Tifa to get in trouble, so he was using me as a scapegoat. I was buzzing with rage, but… If he knew the truth, her father would be furious. And she’d suffered enough. There was only one way I could think to take care of her now. Only one thing I could do.

         “I… I don’t know…” I whined, staring at the ground in shame. Shame that wasn’t mine to bear. “You…you have to help her… please…”

         They didn’t respond. In fact, when I looked up, they’d already begun walking away. Jogging, desperate to make it home in time, but careful not to jostle her. They’d left me there to fend for myself. From the looks on their faces, likely not caring whether I could make it home on my own.

Chapter Text

V

Her Berceuse in Repose

          Life was very different after that night. For my lack of denial and self-defense, the entire town believed Emilio’s lie. They believed that I was responsible for Tifa’s injuries and near-death. Even my mother, who was just as adversely affected. I still believe I’d made the right decision. I would rather wear the scorn of the entire village than have Tifa take blame for the recklessness she’d shown in mourning.

          I just wanted to protect her.

          After that day, I became a pariah in Nibelheim. As did my mother. I was blamed, and my mother was accused of not raising me right and failing to keep me under control. They even blamed my late father, insisting that I had inherited the same “wanderlust” that got him killed on that mountain. From that moment on, the Strife name would scarcely ever be spoken amicably.

          After the accident, Tifa’s health was touch-and-go, to say the least. She’d been rendered comatose, and it wasn’t certain when or if she’d ever awaken. Between the loss of his wife and the teetering life of his daughter, there were many comings and goings from the Lockhart household. Some would stop by to deliver meals, some to offer whatever help they could with Tifa when Mr. Lockhart found himself shorthanded. Some just to keep him company while he mourned.

          Needless to say, I wanted nothing more than to be there by her side. Not seeing her face or hearing her voice after what had happened was absolute torture. But I wasn’t welcome there. Even if I was, my mother didn’t intend to let me out of the house any time soon. Both as a punishment, and for fear of how I’d receive the anger of the other villagers. The other boys, in particular.

          The weight of the world was on my shoulders, and I had no one in whom I could confide. Not even my mother. As far as she was concerned, so long as I didn’t tell her the truth, this was my fault. She’d grown a bit colder toward me. I was left alone with my thoughts, my worries, and my regrets.

          The piano had gone silent.

          I didn’t know what to do with myself. When not pressed by my mother’s academic lessons, during which I wasn’t the best or most attentive student, I spent the remaining hours at our kitchen window. Watching, waiting, hoping, praying that I’d see her walk through her front door and greet the daylight. And every day she didn’t, my heart sank a little more.

          I’d stopped speaking almost entirely. I’d become physically sick, and I didn’t sleep. When I closed my eyes at night, all I could see was the blood pouring from her head. All I could hear were her screams. The way she screamed when her mother passed away, and the way she screamed… when I couldn’t hold on any longer.

          None of it was my fault, in hindsight, but I didn’t see it that way back then. It was my disappearance, my failure to show up in her greatest time of need, that broke her. The bridge collapsed because I ran after her. I drove her to the mountain. I made her fall. As far as I was concerned, she was suffering on death’s door because of me.

          Three nights after the fall, with nowhere else to turn and no other way to vent, I chose to write. A letter for her, though she may never read it. I’d been saving the truth only for her ears, but I was afraid I’d never get the chance to tell her. So, I would leave it for her to find. Taking a seat at the kitchen table by candlelight, and being extra careful with my spelling, I put pencil to paper and let the words pour out of me.

          “Dear Tifa,

          I hope you’re okay. I hope, if you’re dreaming, your dreams are peaceful and happy. I hope everyone is taking real good care of you, and I hope I get to see your face again soon.

          I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when your mother died. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry for being the way that I am, and always making you sad and worried. I’m sorry I can’t be like Emilio and the rest.

          I know you miss her. I do, too. But she isn’t up there. If you’re reading this, please don’t do that again. I guess I can’t stop you. But I can’t lose you. So, if you’re going to try again, then at least take me with you. I swear, I’ll keep you safe.

          Don’t worry about getting in trouble. Everyone thinks it’s my fault, and I’m fine with that. I don’t blame you for it, and I don’t think anyone else should, either. I don’t care if everyone hates me, as long as you’re okay.

          You don’t have to forgive me if you don’t want to. I just want you to get better. I want you to wake up and be happy, the way you used to be. I hope you keep playing the piano, and getting better and better. Your song was really pretty. You should give it a name.

          Please wake up soon. I miss you.

          I lov…”

          My hand wouldn’t move. I couldn’t finish those words. I didn’t deserve to say them, and I had no right to burden her with my feelings any further. As painful as it was, I slowly erased the first four letters I’d already written. Keeping it to myself was for the best.

          “I… I love you...” I whimpered aloud to no one in particular. Certainly, not to her.

          My heart shattered. I choked up. I’d never felt more alone. That night would be another tearful one. And when the exhaustion finally put me to sleep for the first time in days, it would also be another full of nightmares.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          The next morning, my mother wore a very different expression. I didn’t know what had changed, but she wasn’t mad at me anymore. She didn’t even bother to let me properly wake up before she approached me.

          “Cloud, honey… can we talk?” she asked with disarming sweetness.

          Pouting, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. I said nothing, as usual. Just waited for her to continue.

          “Cloud… we all love Tifa…” she consoled.

          “Not like me! I…” It just popped out, in reflex. I’d spoken before I could think, and thought only just in time to stop my mouth from embarrassing me any further. Not that it mattered. She already knew, and I clearly hadn’t erased those last couple of words well enough.

          She smiled. The same smile I’d seen from her last fall, when we’d baked that apology cake.

          “I know, baby… I saw your letter.” She hugged me, and I recoiled. I’d forgotten to hide it. I’d meant to sign and seal it before I went to bed, but emotional trauma had other plans.

          “Sweetheart, I don’t know what happened up there, but… I know what everyone is saying isn’t true. I don’t know why you don’t want to say anything. I’m your mother, and I know you’ve done nothing wrong.

          “But… Cloud, it’s going to be okay. I promise. She’s going to wake up, she’s going to be fine. It might take a while, but things will go back to normal. All of this is going to blow over. You haven’t lost your friend, baby. She loves you, too. I know she does, you’re special to her. I can see it. Everyone can. Just give it time.” she spoke softly.

          She hugged me again. This time, I returned her affections. I’d resented everyone for shunning me, but I was starved for compassion. Now that she understood, I could no longer suppress the need. She spared me any school work that day, even made my favorite dinner that evening. I’d taken this feeling for granted. It was good to be her little boy again.

          Unfortunately, nobody else would be as understanding or forgiving. Unlike her, none of them were interested in my side of the story, even if I were inclined to give it. Still, I was tired of hiding. Whether mom liked it or not, I was going back out into the world. Even if it meant getting hurt, I would do whatever I could to show that I cared. I would try, even if I was turned away.

          The next afternoon, I made my way over to the Lockhart house, carrying a casserole my mother had made for her father. An attempt to make amends, setting aside the misunderstanding for her sake. Maybe it would be reason enough for him to forgive me, if not let me in to see her. I hoped it would be enough. How much hatred could an adult have for an innocent kid, anyway?

          I knocked, but by the time he answered, I didn’t know what to say. He opened the door just a crack, just enough to show his face and see me. He wore an annoyed grimace. I was terrified.

          “H-hi…Mr. Lockhart, um…” I stammered, raising the casserole dish to him and bowing my head. “Th-this…this is for…you…”

          He sighed, opening the door and taking the dish from my hands.

          “Thanks, kid. Tell your momma I said thanks.” He groaned dismissively.

          “I’m sorry…” I was floating tears, trying to keep my composure. “I didn’t mean… I tried to keep her safe. Really, I did. Is she… How is she? I know I don’t have the right to ask, but--”

          “You know what, kiddo… come and see…” He interrupted. He opened the door and motioned for me to enter.

          I hesitated. I didn’t expect this. Honestly, I was expecting him to slam the door in my face. Thinking back now, I realize that you don’t do something like that to a kid, but still. His daughter may have died because of me, as far as he knew. I feel that was a fair expectation. Slowly, flinchingly, I walked past him and up the stairs to her room. I was nervous, but I had to know.

          Here lied Tifa, as I’d never seen her before. None of the energy or smiles for which she was known, nor even the more recent depression and reservedness. Here she was, motionless and infirm, tucked into her bed and hooked to an IV drip. Much like after the fall, I couldn’t tell if she was breathing. In an instant, a slew of images flashed through my mind of what it must be like to care for her every day. I wished I could be the one to do it.

          My heart broke all over again. With complete disregard for the judgment of her father watching from the doorway, I knelt at her bedside. I took her tiny, soft hand in mine and held it to my cheek. My tears spilled over her fingers, and for the longest time, I had no words. Just the stilted breathing of suppressed sobs.

          If I were stronger, I’d have been there for her, and she never would have risked her life.

          If I were stronger, I’d have been able to hold on longer.

          If I were stronger… I could have saved her…

          “Tifa… Tifa, please… please, wake up… I’m so sorry… I’ll never leave you again, I swear…” I whimpered.

          I felt a hand on my shoulder.

          “Cloud…” Mr. Lockhart sighed with a forgiving tone. “Look, buddy… It was a horrible day for everyone. You shouldn’t have done what you did. None of you should have been up that mountain, it was foolhardy. But I understand why. You care about her, I know that. You just wanted to give her hope, yeah? I get it.”

          He pulled up a stool, sat next to me, and placed his hand on Tifa’s forehead.

          “But whether or not I forgive you doesn’t change anything. In the end, it’s going to be up to her. I still don’t know what’s gonna happen. I might... I might lose her, too, because of this. But if she wakes up, as I pray every night, it’s going to be her choice if she still wants to be your friend. And here’s the thing…” he paused, patting my back. “If you care about her, and I know you do… You have to accept whatever she decides.”

          I nodded. “I will… I’ll… She can hate me for the rest of her life, if she wants to. And I’ll never bother her again. I’ll never bother either of you again. But, until she does… until she wakes up… I want…”

          I wanted to sound strong. Like a man. Like this man, who had suffered so much in such a short period of time, and was still keeping his head above water to keep her alive. But the tears still came, twisting and weakening my words.

          “I want to help! I want to be here!” I cried. “So, please…”

          “You can come over whenever you want, boy. I’m not going to stop you.” Mr. Lockhart sighed, standing to leave and patting me on the shoulder.

          For hours, I sat at her bedside, holding her hand. What sickly sunlight permeated the autumn clouds swept over her bed as the hours passed, at last resting on her sweet face and highlighting her unspoiled youth. She was just a little girl. Seeing her in that light, even at her same age, I understood how the adults must have seen her. A face this young should be playing, laughing, and enjoying life with as little worry as possible. Not walking this unnerving tightrope between life and death.

          Eventually, the sun departed and left her face in solemn shadow. She looked deceptively peaceful, her expression serene and unaffected. Unaware of her peril, of her suffering… For one sourly conflicted moment, I felt it might be a mercy for her to dream forever. As much as I missed her, as devastated as I was to live without her… I was afraid for her. I dreaded the day she would awaken and remember.

          Standing up and taking a seat at the piano bench, I buried my face in my hands. My head was spinning. I was tired, heartsick, and hurting. The uncertainty was too heavy, and the silence was maddening. I missed her sweet laugh, her beautiful smile.

          I missed her music.

          I stared at the keys and remembered all the time I’d spent watching her fingers dance across them. All the feelings she’d expressed through them. All the nights they’d blissfully lulled me to sleep. Slowly, hopelessly, aimlessly, I pecked at them just to hear the heavenly clang of their strings. Then, more deliberately, desperately searching for a particular tune. Her tune.

          I would have given anything to hear that song again, that nameless melody, even just once more. I couldn’t play, much less read sheet music. But in all the time I’d watched her practice, I thought, maybe… maybe my hands could find the memory of hers. Maybe they could find her voice. And maybe her voice, in my hand, might pull her from the grip of this terrible repose.

          After several minutes of trying, I’d found the sequence of the first five notes. Retaining them was a slow and clumsy effort, and I could only play them without mistake with great concentration. I gained a new level of appreciation for her skill then.

          “She’d probably laugh at me now…” I dryly chuckled to myself. “I… I wish she could… laugh at me…”

          My hands trembled. My vision blurred through gathering tears. I couldn’t play anymore, but I would never allow myself to forget those notes. I would etch them into my heart forever.

          I had brought the letter with me in my back pocket. Against my better judgment, I hadn’t changed it. I considered erasing that last line a little better; if mom could read it, Tifa certainly could. But I chose not to. Secretly, I wanted her to see it. After all that had happened, and after so many of these grueling days not knowing if I’d ever speak to her again, I was heartsick to the point of physical pain. I told myself I would keep it inside, that I didn’t want to burden her. But I couldn’t contain it.

          We were just kids. Too young for such a thing, most would argue. They would say that I hardly knew what those words truly meant, and that she probably knew just as little. That she wouldn’t have a way to process those feelings. But, for once, I knew what I was feeling. It was as clear as day, no matter how much I’d fought and denied it when my mother first called me out on it.

          I didn’t care what any adult would have said, and I was willing to risk how she’d feel about it. I never thought I’d have to fear losing her like this, and the more I thought about it, the more I understood why Mrs. Lockhart spoke to me so desperately in the few days before her death. I didn’t want to risk missing my chance, either. Tomorrow is never promised.

          Sunset had come and was nearly gone. Mom would be making dinner soon. Before I left, I puzzled as to where I could leave my letter to ensure that it would be only for her eyes. Looking back to the piano, I decided I’d leave it in her score sheet notebook, between the last two pages of her song.

          As I made my way out the door, I stole one last look at her face. Silently, I prayed that she’d open her eyes soon.

          I hoped she’d return my feelings.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          For the next few days, I returned to the Lockhart home in the late morning. Sometimes with food in hand, sometimes with only my presence to annoy him. Once, I stayed all day. The following day, for only what few moments I could spare between lessons and chores, interspersed throughout the afternoon and evening. But I was always there long enough to see her face, and for her to hear my voice.

          I helped with chores, things that would ordinarily fall to Tifa. I helped with her care in any way that a child my age could be trusted. But mostly, I talked to her. I told her about my day, about the weather. I told her about those she loved and their lives. Reluctantly including the other boys, to whatever degree I’d paid attention, simply because I knew it mattered to her. Her father, too, of course. I made sure she knew just how much he loved her, and to just what lengths he went to care for her.

          Maybe she heard me, maybe she didn’t. Maybe it was more for my sake than for hers. Either way, I would not accept that she was gone. I would talk to her about anything and everything that I thought mattered to her, everything but those three important words. To tell her in this state, when she couldn’t respond and likely couldn’t hear or understand, would be cowardice.

          I would save those words for when I could look her in the eye, and she could either hug me, slap me, or write me off completely. In this, her feelings mattered to me more than anything. Even more than my own. And, as I promised her father, I would leave that decision up to her. To lose her then would break my heart, but I could live with it, so long as I knew she’d continue to live her life. With or without me.

          It felt like her life hung in the balance for months, or even years. In reality, it was only a week before we could all breathe a sigh of relief. One week to the day from our accident, she opened her eyes. It happened late at night, when I was at my limit and should have been asleep in my own bed hours ago. Without her piano, the world was dead silent to me. So, even as weak as her voice was, I heard it loud and clear.

          “...D…daddy…?” she quietly rasped, her eyes fluttering and glazed in dream.

          I had been dozing off. Her sweet voice was enough to snap me awake and alert.

          “Tifa?!” I exclaimed, much too close to her face. She winced. Her head probably hurt. I felt bad for shouting.

          “Tifa…Tifa…” I softly placed my hand on her shoulder, pleading for her attention in a lowered tone. Her eyes were hollow, her expression drained.

          “Where…” she rasped again, smacking her dry lips. “...where…am I…?” She was dehydrated. Her father showed me how to change her saline drip, but I’d been too tired to remember.

          I placed my hand on her cheek, carefully redirecting her attention to my eyes. She was fragile, I was trying to be as gentle as I could.

          “Tifa…are… you… I thought you…” My voice trailed into silence.

          Once again, I tried to be strong like TIfa’s father. To show a brave face. But only moments ago, I’d felt like our lives were over. If she didn’t survive, I’d been thinking ever since the fall, then I didn’t want to. Hope returned to me in an instant.

          The relief was overwhelming. I fell to pieces, hugging her. Shaking. Wailing, nearly hyperventilating.

          “...Cloud…?” she whispered. I felt her hand in my hair, my face still buried between her neck and shoulder.

          Just then, her father came stumbling into the room in an exhausted rush. He’d been sleeping. I wasn’t sure if he truly had forgiven me, but he had approved of me spending the night. At the very least, it did his nerves good to know that someone was staying by her side when he could no longer keep his eyes open.

          “What’s going on?! What happened?!” he shouted in panic, pulling me from her.

          I stumbled to the floor, still a soppy, speechless mess. All I could do was point to the bed.

          “For fuck’s sake, boy! Use your words! What is it?!”

          “Daddy…is that you…?” Tifa weakly called.

          Mr. Lockhart’s jaw dropped in shock, his eyes as wide as dinner plates. His breath halted. When he turned and saw her reaching out for him, he broke down just as I had. He pressed her little face to his, kissing her forehead and cheeks.

          “Tifa, my baby girl… Thank god…! Baby, I thought I’d lost you! Don’t ever scare daddy like that again, okay?” He begged between sniffles and stunted breaths.

          “Daddy…your beard is scratchy…” Tifa whined. He laughed in a way I’d never seen. Unveiled, genuine emotion like nobody was watching. As if it were just the two of them in this world. No one and nothing else mattered.

          I left the room, and gave them some time alone. Before her, I’d never been particularly empathetic or considerate. I think that experience taught me these things. If I’d been a bit better at it, I’d have returned to my own bed where I belonged. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t stand the idea of being that far from her. I settled for the couch, Mr. Lockhart spent the rest of that night in his daughter’s room, watching over her as she succumbed to a sleep we both prayed wouldn’t be permanent.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          When I awoke, it was nearly noon. Mr. Lockhart not only didn’t mind me making myself at home, he’d actually chosen to let me sleep. The constant grief and worry I’d experienced for the past week had made me ignore all other pains and ailments, and the relief I felt last night suddenly reminded me of all I’d been ignoring. Were it not for him jostling me awake, I’d have probably slept the entire day away.

          “Breakfast is on the table, kid.” he said matter-of-factly.

          He returned up the stairs. As thankful as I was in hindsight, I’d have that meal cold in the hours to come. Eating wasn’t my priority, and I was on his heels before he made it to her door.

          When I entered her room, I saw her sitting upright in bed, half beneath the covers. She was staring into her lap emptily, silently. Mr. Lockhart took a seat at her bedside. He’d brought her a warm bowl of porridge with the intent to spoon-feed her. But she wouldn’t look up. Wouldn’t even make a sound to acknowledge either of us.

          It was as if she was awake, yet somehow wasn’t. She was trapped in a haze, barely aware of herself at all. Whether it was the sickness of waking, or the weight of the mental and physical trauma, I didn’t know.

          It may have been, as I’d feared, the mounting comprehension of the reality to which she’d awakened. She’d been lost in a dream. Hopefully, a pleasant one. She may have had her mother and endless summer days, only to awaken into the aches, pains, and autumn chill of a world without her.

          It would be a while yet before she was back on her feet, but I was determined to be there every step of the way, in whatever capacity she needed me. I told her mother that I’d be there for her. That I’d care for her, and help her be strong. That was a promise I intended to keep, no matter the cost. No matter what would become of our friendship after her recovery.

          I spent that night in my own bed, knowing she'd be in good hands. My mother was still proud of me, she told me, but I didn't want to worry her any more than I already had. From then on, I'd do all I could to help Tifa return to her old self. But I'd do so as her friend, not her caretaker.

          In the days following, I continued to visit and deliver the meals my mother prepared. I always asked about Tifa, but after Mr. Lockhart once insisted, quite sternly, that they needed no further help, I took the hint and opted to keep a respectful distance. Waiting patiently. Anxiously.

          Still, I was heartened by his news, brief though it usually was. For the first few days, he told me that nothing had changed. She remained in bed, wouldn't speak to him, and scarcely seemed to know where she was. He did manage to get her to eat, but only with great difficulty. It made me sick with worry.

          A few days later, he told me that she'd finally gotten up and around, though only for a short while at a time. When she walked, he said she ‘shook like a newborn fawn taking its first steps, and got winded easy’. But he also told me that her eyes were looking a little brighter and clearer.

          She was coming around. I was glad to hear that, but it wasn’t without cost. From her head trauma, she’d suffered memory loss. Selective amnesia, the doctor had called it during one of his visits. The last thing she could remember clearly was taking a seat at the piano bench and her mother’s attentive smile. Everything after that was either a blur, or completely blank.

          I didn’t know what to think of that. I didn’t even understand how such a thing could happen. But it meant that, when I finally got the chance to talk to her, I’d have to choose my words very carefully. Where her memory had failed, her trust would have to stand in. The first words she heard about that day would shape her perspective, for better or worse. And I would have no way of knowing what she’d already been told, let alone what she truly thought.

          I saw her standing by her window later that afternoon, just staring into the gray sky. I waved at her, but she never so much as looked at me. I worried for the state of her mind and heart. I worried for our friendship.

          The next few days were deathly silent and secretive. I heard nothing, saw nothing. Her curtains were usually drawn, and Mr. Lockhart answered the door more guardedly and hesitantly. He hurriedly whispered, and a few times, he even shooed me away.

          She didn't want to see me. Me, in particular, it seemed. Because over the next few days, I'd seen Emilio and the others visit several times. I was hurt, but Mr. Lockhart's words still rang in my ears. I had to respect her decision.

          One day, I chose to give up mid-approach. On my way to her door, I saw Tyler in her window. He glared at me, then drew the curtains with a snap. My heart lurched and felt blue, my stomach a sickly yellow-green. I despaired.

          Facing her front door and leaning against the well’s wooden armature planks, I slid to the ground and sat in the gravel with a jarring thud. And as my eyes settled beneath her window, I noticed something for the first time since the accident.

          My sign was gone.

          Scattered here and there by hands easily suspected.

          I gripped my chest. Since meeting her, I'd been assaulted by many new feelings I couldn't name and didn't understand. Some pleasant, some euphoric, many disturbing and painful. This one was among the worst.

          I had no tears. I suppose I'd spent them all in my grief and regret in the weeks prior. Still, a chilling vein of sorrow ran through my core like an icy river. And I was drowning in it, hugging my knees and burying my face between them in a pitiful effort to stay warm.

          I don't know how long I sat there, but I'd have been content to sit there forever rather than face what was to come next. I was drawn out by the muffled voice of someone kicking my foot, demanding my attention.

          “Hey.” He coldly spat, kicking me again. “Look at me.”

          I looked up to find Emilio standing above me, a familiar piece of paper in his unmerciful grip. My letter, freed and violated of its privacy by his dirty, prying hands.

          “What's this?” He taunted, waving the paper in my face.

          “Give it back!” I growled. I attempted to snatch it from his hand several times as he deftly dodged me, chuckling.

          “Lucky I found it before she did.” He shoved me to the ground. “Can't have her believing your lies, can we?” He laughed.

          Baring my teeth, I lunged for him one more time. He punched me in the gut, continuing to taunt me as I wretched and struggled for air.

          “What's this here at the bottom?” He teased. “‘I lov…’ Seriously? Were you about to write ‘I love you’? I don't think you even know what that word means.” He mocked.

          “Tell ya’ what, Cloud. Don't you worry about ‘keeping her safe’. We'll take care of that. From you, most of all.” He huffed.

          He tore my letter in half. In quarters. In eighths, and threw it at my feet where it scattered in the breeze.

          “She doesn't like you, Cloud. Nobody likes you. Go home.” He dismissed, turning his back on me and walking away.

          I'm not sure what happened next. I blacked out. Next I knew, I was standing over him as he writhed and moaned in the dirt and gravel. His nose bleeding, my knuckles scuffed, hot tears in my eyes. And most distressing of all, Tifa looking down at me from her window, emotionless and cold.

          Staring at me only for a moment, she left as the curtain fell back into place. It may as well have been a wall of steel, shutting me out and abandoning me in the cold. With sharp pains of shame and indignation, I ran home, not to be seen again for days.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          When I saw her next, she was standing at my front door. My mother had been the one to answer. Though she’d left us alone to talk ‘privately’, I could tell she was eavesdropping. I’d told her what happened. Told her everything. About Tifa's song and her mother’s last moments. About how I chased her up the mountain, even when the other boys ran. About how I tried to stop her, tried to save her. And why I’d taken the blame.

          I could see how upset it made her, how badly she wanted to intervene. But, in the end, she understood. Understood logically where I'd only guessed emotionally. With all that had happened, Tifa’s mind and heart were fragile. She had enough to process, to come to terms with, without this extra drama.

          It would be in my best interest for her to know what really happened, and for her to know my heart. But it would mean her knowing just what a dangerous thing she’d done, how she’d nearly ended her own life. It would mean her having to remember the most painful, traumatic parts of that day.

          Most importantly, as good as she was, as much as she cared about me, it would mean her taking the blame. It would mean risking the empathy and favor of the entire village, leaving her as just another stupid kid who did a stupid thing to upset her father in his time of loss, and that I could protect her from nothing.

          For now, if this ‘truth’ would allow her to adjust, if it would allow her to get back to living a normal life, then it was one we’d have to tolerate until she was ready. Until all of this blew over, and the truth could be only for her, without pain and regret, I would accept whatever she chose to think of me.

          It was the first truly cold day of autumn, dew turned to frost on every surface that dim and dreary morning. The breeze had an unpleasant, biting edge. It wasn't a day for outdoor play, nor had that been Tifa's intention. She hadn't even really come to talk, only to tell me what she had to say.

          “Hi…” she spoke softly.

          It was the first word I'd heard her speak in weeks. It was the sweetest sound in the world, but it was laced with grief and reluctance.

          “H-hi…” I replied, stunned and surprised. I hadn't expected her to ever speak to me again.

          “Um… daddy told me… that you helped take care of me while I was sleeping. Thanks for that. You’re…” She paused, “...a good friend.” She whispered with a note of uncertainty.

          “I…uh…you’re welcome. I just wanted to-”

          “Listen, Cloud… I don’t remember much of what happened that day. I guess I hit my head pretty hard, and it’s all pretty fuzzy, but… Emilio told me…”

          “Emilio…” My skin tingled in dreaded anticipation. My blood ran cold and hot. I clenched my fist in silent frustration.

          “I… I don’t think I can play with you anymore.” She lamented, eyes averted.

          “But, Tifa, you don’t under-”

          “It’s dangerous. It’s dangerous for both of us. I could’ve…we could’ve been killed. I just didn’t know that’s what kind of boy you were. It’s not safe…”

          “Tifa, I’m not! I’m-”

          “I’m sorry, Cloud… Please be careful from now on, okay? I don’t want you to get hurt…”

          She walked away.

          And that was that.

          That was how our friendship came to an end.

Chapter Text

Interlude

        She’d been listening to him quietly until then. Endearingly, and with a persistent smile. This was the first Cloud had ever spoken of their childhood at length. At times, even after she helped him reclaim his mind, she was uncertain exactly what he remembered of those days. If anything at all, he was still reserved and quiet, and almost never open with his feelings. She never expected him to speak about it this candidly.

          She was captivated.

          Through even the most difficult parts to hear, all the pain and anguish they’d both been through, she’d kept that smile. She remembered the earliest days of their friendship and their play together, at least as clearly as any adult could recall memories so young. She remembered few specifics, but overall, she remembered him fondly. Still, as special as those memories were, they were simple.

          Her feelings, at the time, had been challenged and undeveloped. Life had driven a rift between them time and again through various circumstances, and he had always been at least a little distant, even during their closest days. To say nothing of the more trying years to follow. Though they’d had their fun and games, in the end, he had been an enigma to her. Quiet, cool, and moody. Often frustrating, and impossible to read.

          She had no idea just how special she had been to him, or just how much he’d cared. Nor would she have ever suspected that he loved her so deeply. After all, his assumption had been right. While so young, she wouldn’t have even known what that word truly meant, let alone what to do with such a confession. Knowing now made her so happy. And yet, for not knowing and being unable to reciprocate at the time, somewhat sad.

          However, these last memories of loss and mourning, the transformative trauma that would ultimately set them apart, disturbed her. Not the death of her mother in and of itself. Those wounds had healed long ago, and she now carried her mother’s spirit peacefully within her. What she mourned now was something just as precious to her, something that had been taken from her every bit as unfairly.

          Cloud had spoken to her late into the night, well after they’d retired to bed, whispering their tale to her in the darkness and silence. He stopped when she broke into a fit of tormented frustration and sobs. She closed her eyes tightly, visibly straining, occasionally whining. Several times, when he tried to interrupt, she would shush him. And each time, after a brief period of silent concentration, she would groan and cry harder.

          Eventually, she collapsed into his arms. He held her close and petted her hair, waiting for her breathing and nerves to calm. He hadn’t even had the chance to ask her what was wrong, nor would he until she was stable enough to articulate her thoughts.

          “I can’t remember… God damn it, I just can’t… I hate this… It’s not fair…” Tifa moaned through bitter tears, gritting her teeth as she burrowed into his chest.

          “Tifa…” Cloud whispered, holding her tight. He felt terrible, like he’d done this to her. Maybe he should have just let her peacefully forget. He sighed regretfully, uncertain how to console her.

          She’d lost the memory of what truly happened on the mountain. She had seen it through his eyes in the chaos of the Lifestream, and the revelation had unearthed the true source and depth of the love she’d always felt. But she still couldn’t remember for herself. Where she’d been granted one lucid, ephemeral image, just enough to truly know him, the memory would forever thereafter live in darkness and oblivion. A mere hypothetical suggestion, no more real to her mind than the lie she’d once been led to believe.

          And now, she realized, she’d lost much more than she thought.

          “It’s not fair.” Tifa repeated, more calmly, but still clearly frustrated. “I… It’s so important, and I can’t… I can’t remember. Even what I can remember is so blurry, and so much is just… gone. I didn’t know that I… that I played for my mother. I couldn’t remember that, and you were the only one who heard or saw… I thought she died before I got the chance…”

          Cloud hung his head in shame. It wasn’t his fault, he hadn’t known. But had he spoken to her back then, had he remained as close as he should have, maybe he could have known just how little she retained. Maybe he could have reminded her. Maybe it would have mended the distance between them if she only knew all that he’d done, and how he truly felt.

          “That’s why I played her song so often…” She continued. “I wasn’t practicing, I was… I played it every night because I prayed that she could hear it, wherever she was. I played it for her.”

          “Tifa, I’m so sorry. I should’ve been there.” Cloud lamented. “I should’ve been in that room with you after she passed. If I had, you’d remember now. You’d have never gone up that mountain, and you’d remember everything. So much would be better now if…”

          “No, Cloud.” She interrupted. “I already forgave you for that. Everything happened the way it was supposed to happen. It was fate. But… the most painful part, for me… is knowing how long you had to keep all of this to yourself. How alone you were.”

          There it was again. She was still that little girl he used to know. That endlessly compassionate little angel who always thought of him before herself, even in her greatest moments of sorrow. Even when he had wronged her, and even if she knew it, his feelings always came first to her. It was this part of her he’d fallen for, and the reason he’d die to protect her. For this reason, she was precious to him. She was his home.

          “You were so sweet, and I… I can’t remember. Your sign. The way you’d been there when I practiced, how you’d cared for me when mom was… and the way you encouraged me when I played for her… I… I can’t… It’s so hazy, Cloud… It’s not fair.

          “I want to know what I was feeling, what I was thinking. I want to feel it now… When I look at your face, when I hear your words… I want to love you more… love you harder… And there’s reason to, and I can’t… I can’t remember… I want to remember…”

          Her voice was trailing. Softening and slurring. She’d exhausted herself, and she could barely keep her eyes open.

          “I’ll remember for you, baby…” Cloud declared. “I could never forget. If you can’t feel it for yourself, then… I’ll tell you this story whenever you want. Every night if I have to. Every time you want to remember. I’ll remember for you, feel it for you, and you can feel it through me.”

          Silence, but for her steady and peaceful breaths. Then, minutes later, as if in a dream…

          “I loved you, too… Cloud… I know I did…”

          Cloud smiled, kissing her forehead and keeping her in his arms for the night. She could hear the rest tomorrow, and she would surely want to. For now, she needed rest. Much later into the night, not long before dawn, she spoke again.

          “I wanna… piano… play for… for you…” She murmured softly.

          Sometimes, he was grateful she spoke in her sleep. He would remember those words.

Chapter Text

VI

Her Caesura in Disdain

          I say that our friendship ended that day, but in truth, I don't think it was quite as simple as that. She certainly wouldn't have thought so. Though we didn't really play anymore, she didn't hate me. She still cared about me, at least enough to say hello and smile in my direction on occasion. I, however, changed. To her dismay, and to my mother's, I'd retreated inward again. Returned to old habits, social reclusion and contempt. I was tired of feeling, tired of hurting. So, I simply… stopped.

          For most, I gave my usual brand of silence, indifference, and general rejection. For her, though never entirely abhorrent, my feelings became muddled and confused. Where one day I would resent her for cutting me off so coldly, another I would linger on the memory of that fateful day and wonder. 

          If what her father had said of her memory was completely true, then…what exactly did she remember? What had she forgotten? Did she remember me sitting at the well, encouraging and comforting her? Did she remember playing for her mother? Did she remember the nervousness that had weakened her, the new confidence that strengthened her, or her mother's praise and smile?

          And what of our further history? How much did she truly recall of our friendship? How much did I really mean to her, and how much of that connection had she retained? Maybe I was out of line to question it, but…at times, it was like she barely remembered me at all. That may have been one of my biggest faults. Jumping to conclusions, and more often than not, assuming the worst. Knowing what a good person she was, yet still assuming there was something cold in her, if only to justify the coldness in myself.

          In the deepest reaches of my heart, I still loved her. Still longed for her, as ridiculous as it may have seemed for someone so young. But outwardly, I just wasn’t the boy she knew anymore. I was who I used to be, the boy she didn’t know and would have been better off never knowing. My true face, of which she’d only ever gotten a glimpse, had finally revealed itself to her. And she didn’t like what she saw.

          Most of our interactions from then on were less pleasant and more frustrating. I had taken a shining to certain activities to which she had introduced me, and for which she was still frequently known. Spending time on the mountain path, at the river, and climbing trees were chief among them, of course. But I would do so alone now. Whenever she would show up, especially if in the company of the other boys, I would usually hide or make myself scarce.

          It didn’t go unnoticed. It annoyed her, often upset her, but the boys made light of it. Whether to cheer her up, turn her against me, or simply because it was fun for them to have a laugh at my expense, they would make fun of me. Call me names. Call me weird. Often call me creepy, suggesting that I was watching her in secret. Unfortunately, they were right about that. I couldn’t help but internalize the insult and own it.

          She never confronted or antagonized me, as the boys had so often done. Yet, perplexingly, and maybe even encouragingly, she had a tendency to watch me just as much. She didn’t pursue me, and certainly didn’t purposely keep her distance from me. But when she knew I was around, I could feel her eyes on me, too. And despite her visible annoyance at my behavior, when her expression settled, it was almost never one of anger. Usually, it was a sort of sadness. Concern and worry. Sometimes… sometimes, I felt like she even missed me.

          There was one day the following summer when she did approach me. One chance I had to patch all wounds, to make things as they used to be between us. A chance to safely tell her the truth, when the incident at the mountain had mostly become a memory. And yet, something wouldn’t let me. Some part of me that seemed to enjoy being persistently miserable.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          It was sundown on a typical, sleepy day. I was sitting atop the well’s pressure tank stand, as I often did since the days of watching Tifa practice her song. I had been sitting there for a couple of hours. Since returning to my old habits, I had also returned to spending most of my time indoors. Yet, I could no longer stand to live in a world without her.

          As embarrassing as it is to admit, Emilio and the others were right. I was watching her. I had to. I had to know that she was alright. I had to know that she was healing. She’d long ago recovered from the fall, but I worried for her heart and her mind. I had to know that she could still be happy, that she could live like she once did.

          I’d promised her mother that I’d care for her. That I’d always be her friend, and that I’d always be there for her. But, if I’m honest, it wasn’t all for her. I’ve never been that noble. Selfishly, I just… It hurt. To be without her, to accept going our separate ways, was painful to me. So, I sat there most days, even if only for a little while. Watching her. Stewing in my own regret.

          I would like to say that I always watched her lovingly, if sadly. But that wasn’t how my mind worked back then. In reality, it was the greatest mental struggle I’d ever faced. Where once I was closed off from the world and from other kids, there was at least a sense of certainty in it. A consistency. Now, my mind fought itself ferociously. I was obsessed and tormented.

          I loved to watch her when she was alone, greeting people in the morning. Not quite the way she used to, so energetic and carefree. The trauma and loss had changed her, and she’d matured a bit since then. But still sweetly, still the village darling. And still with her signature, pretty smile. This was the Tifa I knew and missed. The girl I would give my life to protect.

          But then… there were the times when she wasn’t alone. When she was with them, it reduced me to a sour lump of jealousy and contempt. Indignant that she could surround herself with idiots like them, after the way they’d treated me. The way they’d spoken about me. Depressed that she may agree with them. Discouraged that she would ever see me as she once did, and certain that I’d lost her forever.

          During those times, every part of me wanted to resent her. But my deepest, innermost heart would not allow it. She wasn’t like that, I thought. I’d caused her heartache before, but I’d been good to her, too. My best had shone through for her, hadn’t it? Surely, she could see that in me. But, maybe she didn’t remember… Maybe the lie Emilio spread was still her truth. Maybe I was still “that kind of boy” to her, the kind that made her feel unsafe.

          I hated them. I hated that I loved her. I lamented that she may have hated me for loving her. I reeled that she may or may not have known how I truly felt. And I suffered that I would never know for sure, so long as I didn’t have the courage to ask or confess. It was a never-ending agony of despondency and humiliation.

          After hours of watching them play, well into sunset, the boys finally left for their respective homes. As always, she set about saying goodnight to all the adults still lingering at the square. On any given day like this, the conclusion was always the same. Whether I chose to hide, whether she chose to steal one last glance in my direction, we would always return to our homes without saying a word. Her visibly feeling awkward, and me feeling pathetic.

          Tonight, she broke the pattern.

          I held my breath as she walked toward the well, staring straight at me. I was stunned and nervous, but I didn’t run or hide. She hadn’t spoken to me in ages, and I missed her terribly. She stood just below me, staring up at me, winking hard against the glare of the setting sun.

          “Cloud.” She called with exasperation. “Can you come down here and talk to me, please?”

          It wasn’t much of a greeting. It was more like the way my mother would call to me when she was about to 'gently correct' my behavior for one reason or another. And I gave her the same frown usually reserved for that kind of lecture. I hesitated, embarrassed, and not too keen on the idea of hearing how displeased she was with me.

          “Please?” She repeated with a sigh.

          Groaning, I slowly climbed down and stood before her, eyes averted and turning red.

          “Cloud… you know, I’d like it if you said hi sometimes.” She whined.

          I was taken aback. I’d expected her to call me a creep. To tell me to stop staring, and to leave her alone. I expected her to see me the way the other boys saw me. And yet, it seemed that I had misjudged her once again.

          “Well… I mean, you don’t say hi to me, either, though…” I muttered, a bit more combatively than I intended.

          “That’s true. I’m sorry for that. Do… do you hate me?” She asked meekly, melting me with those beautiful eyes of hers like she always did.

          ‘I could never hate you, Tifa. You’re special to me.’ That’s what I wanted to say, but…

          “I… I could ask you the same thing…” I weakly argued, immediately hating myself. Why did everything have to be an argument?

          She sighed. “Cloud, I… I forgive you, okay? Daddy forgives you. The boys forgive you… I think. I’m pretty sure everyone does. It doesn’t have to be like this.” She pleaded.

          She did miss me. I could hear it in her voice, see it in her eyes. But, to no fault of hers, I had turned bitter.

          She still didn’t know. And how could she? I had never told her the truth, and Emilio certainly wasn’t going to expose his own lie. I had every reason to tell her now. It wouldn’t hurt her anymore. It may have even brought us closer. But, her fault or not, there was something vexing about being ‘forgiven’ for something I never did in the first place.

          It soured me, and against my better judgment, doubt crept in. Even if I were to tell her, after all this time, after I’d accepted the blame for so long and with such an obvious grudge, why would she believe me? Surely, I’d lie simply to absolve myself in her eyes and win my way back into her good graces, she’d think. How disgusting, to pass the blame onto her just to save face.

          “I thought you didn’t want to be friends with ‘a boy like me’?” I spat. I was actually angry now, unfairly treating her as though she should know better.

          “Cloud…”

          “The others don’t like me either. In fact, they hate me. So, why don’t you?” I huffed.

          I was just digging the hole deeper. She was giving me a way back in, and I was throwing it in her face. I knew it was wrong, that I’d regret it, but I couldn’t stop myself. I was twisted in knots of foolish, petty pride that I couldn’t swallow, even for her sake.

          “I don’t hate you, Cloud.” She sighed, annoyed with my stubborn impertinence.

          “Yeah, well… maybe you should. That’s what Emilio and the others want, isn’t it?”

          She went silent, staring at her feet. She knew I was right. She had nothing to say. And so long as she didn’t, I had nothing further to say, either. Yet, as I turned my back on her, she protested.

          “Cloud, please! Please, don’t be like this!” she cried.

          I stopped, desperately fighting myself. I wanted to apologize, but for what? I’d done nothing wrong. I wanted to tell her how much I missed her, but I already felt pathetic enough. The truth burned my lips, fizzling into impotence as I found the admission futile and pointless. With nothing left I could say, I just kept walking. Never turning back, even as I heard her caterwaul in frustration, stomping her feet and slamming the door as she shut herself away for the night.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          I felt small.

          She didn't deserve that. My anger and frustration weren’t with her. She only knew what she had been told, and when I didn’t deny it, she had no cause to question it. I was frustrated with the situation, with having to bear the burden of guilt that wasn’t mine. In truth, I couldn’t even entirely blame Emilio, though the lie was his. In the end, I accepted it for her sake. I was suffering the consequences of my own inaction.

          That night, I heard her play the piano again. She didn’t play as often now. I’m sure it reminded her of her mother, and that made it difficult to entertain. But when she did play, she was as diligent as ever. She reached to perfect the art as nearly as she could, and to push herself beyond her limits. She practiced her mother’s repertoire, practiced a rather large collection of other well-known works she’d compiled, and even went about composing more songs of her own.

          At the end of every night, for which I always waited before I committed myself to sleep, she played the song she wrote for her mother. Improving her accuracy, refining her technique. And occasionally, adding a new layer of depth, making it richer and more beautiful. More worthy of her mother and the legacy she’d passed on to her.

          In the days when she’d just started to learn, it was easier to read her heart through her music. Her hand was guided by pure emotion, and technique was secondary. Now, her emotions still rang through, but in a different way. It was in how loudly she played, or how softly. How quickly or slowly. How passionately, or stiffly.

          It isn’t to say that her play was perfect. There was still much room for growth, as there would be for anyone. But she had grown dramatically, matured. Now, the feeling I got from her music resembled that of her mother’s play much more closely. In a way, she transcended it.

          I only ever appreciated her mother’s music for its beauty. Tifa’s, even through the same songs, remained a window into her heart. The one unbreakable connection we had, unsullied no matter our interactions in dysfunctional daylight. I think she saw it that way, too. After all, she knew I was listening. And she always left her window cracked, knowing how the sound carried.

          As the sound of her song washed over me, as every night, I closed my eyes and concentrated. Memorizing every last note, especially those newly added. Tapping my fingers on my bed in mimicry of the five notes I’d kept since playing them at her bedside months ago.

          This song was sacred to me. My most important memory, however painful. It was the sound of my promise to Mrs. Lockhart, and of my secret vow to Tifa. Every night, with every note she played, I carved it a little deeper into my heart. Chiseling it in fine detail, embossed and calligraphic.

          Tonight, her song spoke of missing a friend.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          That exchange didn’t make things worse, but it certainly didn’t change anything for the better. Emilio and the others had heard about it, clearly. They tended to pay me more attention than they previously had. Looking over their shoulders at me, wearing sour expressions, and frequently pressing her to relocate their play somewhere beyond my line of sight. But their opinions didn’t matter to me, and she evidently didn’t wish to avoid me any more than I wished to avoid her.

          A month had passed since then without contact. As before, I continued to watch from the well most days. But now, I had adopted a new habit. A couple of weeks earlier, Shinra had paid an unannounced visit to Nibelheim. Something which always made the villagers, particularly the elders, uneasy. We owed our livelihood, the very existence of the town itself, to the company. Shinra Manor at the top of the town’s tallest hill was testament to that fact, and the old mako reactor far into the mountains was the reason for it.

          In truth, given that we had no major export to speak of, we were merely allowed to live there in order to maintain the land in which they had so heavily invested. Even as the company interest focused elsewhere and operations at the reactor grew more and more seldom, even as Shinra Manor lay abandoned for years, that fact remained. So, when Shinra showed up, it could only mean one of two things: either they had something for us, which meant more funding and a better life for everyone, or they wanted something from us when we most often had little to give.

          It usually wasn’t the former. This time, as usual, it was the latter. They hadn’t meant to take anything from us directly, but they did intend to plant an idea in the heads of the village youth. We had been at war with Wutai, far to the northwest, for quite some time. Now, in Shinra’s final effort to end the war once and for all, they were looking to bolster their numbers for one final push. Namely, their elite forces. SOLDIER.

          They’d shown up in a military convoy. It made everyone nervous, but in so doing, it attracted the attention they were after. They came bearing propaganda and demonstration. Display of their elite SOLDIER force’s strength and pride, selling the idea of transforming oneself into a superhuman warrior. Exhibitions of their First Class division’s fitness and combat prowess, effectively romanticizing the prospect of becoming a superhero.

          They’d done so in dramatic fashion, too. Bringing in live monsters to release and kill in the town square for all to see. Not the relatively tame, local variety, but the kind of things you’d only see way out in the wilds or far into the mountains. Real threats, something your ordinary grunt wouldn’t be able to handle. A few of them even looked unnatural. There had been rumors for quite a while about Shinra’s genetic experiments, and that was proof enough for many.

          They insisted that it was a “controlled environment”, but that didn’t really comfort anyone. The only thing standing between us and them were the SOLDIER operatives. And that was the point. It certainly did leave an impression when the beasts were quickly dispatched and not a single person came to harm. It was a sight we weren’t going to forget anytime soon, whether for the spectacle itself or the nightmares that would surely follow for many.

          Surprisingly, by and large, the appeal didn’t land. A few here and there, but for the most part, even the kids enjoyed the slow, peaceful life to which we’d grown accustomed. The thought of genetically modifying themselves and dying in a foreign land just wasn’t attractive. But then, there were kids like me. Kids who, for whatever reason, had a personal investment in getting stronger. After what happened, after watching her nearly die and desperately praying for her survival, she was the only reason I needed.

          Ever since that day, I could be found sitting at the well, looking at the pamphlets and brochures they’d left behind. And when I grew tired of them, I’d taken to reading the local newspaper. It was distributed by Shinra, so there was always mention of the goings-on in Wutai. I didn’t understand most of the language; my reading wasn’t so great just yet. Mostly, I was just looking for pictures and mentions of one legendary warrior in particular.

          Sephiroth, Shinra’s pride and joy, and the bane of Wutai forces everywhere. Some said he wasn’t even human. I would have killed to see him in action just once. Here, I thought, was a man who could do anything. A man who made people feel safe. Who could protect anyone. He was more than a man, he was a symbol. A genuine hero. I idolized him, wanted to be him. If I were that strong, Tifa would never come to harm again. Not as long as I lived and breathed.

          So, that became my goal. I was still little, only nine years old. But, the way I figured it, the earlier I started, the more suitable I’d be when the time came to prove myself. It started small. More daring outdoor play, and in the manner that Tifa and I once did. Just to remind myself what I was fighting for. I got better at catching frogs. I climbed that tree that Emilio conquered again and again until I’d mastered it too, reaching that highest branch twice as fast as he ever could.

          I chased our neighbor’s dog now, though I don’t think he enjoyed it quite as much. He was getting a little older, a little slower. And I was getting much faster. After a while, his joy had visually turned to fear. His typical wagging tail started tucking between his legs when he saw me. I was menacing him. Scaring him, though I’d never meant to. After I started seeing that, I moved on. I didn’t want to hurt him. Tifa would never forgive me. Besides, I really did love that mutt, though I’d have been loath to admit loving anyone or anything back then.

          By the standards of most boys my age, it probably wasn’t much of a change. But it was for me. Before I met her, it was very clear that I spent most of my time indoors. I was scrawny and relatively pale. Soft, I guess you could say. After she’d lured me into a life of outside play, that began to change a little. But it was really only for her. Physical activity only really appealed to me when she was with me.

          For the first time in my life, I’d begun to do these things for myself. Though, for self-betterment rather than entertainment. I would make myself stronger, even if only little by little. When it was finally our turn to venture out into the world, I knew exactly where I was headed. And I would be ready, no matter what it took.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          Eventually, play simply wasn’t enough anymore. If I intended to live the life of a warrior, to grow truly strong and capable, I had to get used to the idea of facing real danger. While I did still watch Tifa from afar, and most certainly still subsisted on the sound of her music, it was no longer my focus. At the end of the day, how much I worried and wondered would affect no change. I had to be better, to be capable of keeping her safe.

          After Tifa’s mother passed away, most people in town weren’t quite as concerned with my safety, nor did they pay me much attention. I used that fact to my advantage and spent as much time on the mountain path as I could. Far up into the areas from which we were forbidden. Running, hiking, and climbing where none were likely to come for me, where I could only count on my own wits and tenacity. If I couldn’t save myself, I couldn’t save her.

          The only one regularly enough in my presence and with enough investment in my safety to be concerned was my mother, but she was not inclined to babysit my play at this age. Despite my father’s “wanderlust”, she still felt it was important for me to be adventurous to some degree. Of course, had she learned what I was actually doing, she definitely would have protested. Vehemently. She would not stand to lose me on that mountain the same way she lost her husband.

          So, apart from whatever scrapes and bruises I would definitely accrue as I pushed myself, she would receive no clues from me. But I did have the poker face of a nine-year-old, and I couldn’t hide everything. When the day came that I faced the first real threat to my life, reality shattered my composure, and my secret was nearly exposed.

          Whenever up the mountain path, I would always stop at the foot of the broken rope bridge. It had yet to be repaired since the incident, so I couldn’t go any farther. I would just stand there and stare into the river below. It was truly dizzying, something that would have probably stopped me as easily as it did the other boys had my fear for her life not blinded me to the peril. I still didn’t know how we managed to survive, let alone how I got away with nothing more than scraped knees.

          Standing there today, there was no chilling storm threatening to consume me and cast me into the depths. In fact, the air was eerily still, and the heat of summer was oppressive. I’d already been there for several hours and exhausted myself on the slopes. I was growing stronger, and I was pleased with my progress, but I had my limits. Typically, this is where my “training sessions” would come to an end. My way of keeping my purpose in mind, remembering the pain that I sought to prevent from ever recurring.

          In hindsight, I was grateful for the calm weather that day. Were there even the slightest breeze, I might not have heard them approach. I don’t know what drew them to me, whether it was my sweat, or the fact that my obvious exhaustion made me easy prey. Either way, it was terrible timing and almost certain death.

          Kyuvilduns, we called them. Like giant, dog-sized mosquitoes without wings. Stealthy, agile, and relentless creatures that hunted in packs. Proboscises like razor-sharp rapiers. Not particularly strong individually, but more than enough to overwhelm a single person if caught off guard. Especially a child such as myself. Given half the chance, they were capable of taking down even the largest prey in moments.

          I stood frozen with terror as three of them scuttled to-and-fro at a near distance, twitching and chittering with excited hunger and blood lust. They could have pounced at any moment. Thinking quickly, I grabbed a small, stripped branch laying at my feet. How it had made its way this far up the treeless expanse, I have no idea. Likely some other wanderer’s walking stick from who knows how long ago. Regardless, it was my only chance.

          Just as I took hold of it, the nearest monstrous insect leapt upon me from an impossible height, knocking me to the ground and the stick from my hand. Belying its thin build, the strength of its limbs easily surpassed my own, and it ground me mercilessly into the gravelly rock beneath my back. The barbs of its carapace tore at my shirt and skin with every skittering pass. Only my left hand stopped its barbed and bladed proboscis from piercing my sternum, quickly losing its grip as the edge slashed through my fingers and palm.

          As I reached desperately for the stick just beyond the length of my arm, it continued to thrust downward, menacing me with clattering chitters and alien shrieks. I nearly lost all of my strength, nearly succumbed to the embrace of death, before motivation struck me like a thunderbolt. I thought of my mother, crying over my grave and alone with the remaining scorn from the town. But, of course, I primarily thought of Tifa.

          Would she mourn my death? Would she miss me?

          How would I keep her safe if I died here?

          What if she wandered up here again, and these creatures were still around?

          What if she was next?

          With that last damning thought, I found strength and ferocity that I didn’t know I had. With the direction of all of my weight and anger, I kneed the insect in its lower abdomen. While it stammered with the insectoid equivalent of a yawp, I took the opportunity to scramble for the stick, snapping its end to a jagged point.

          I turned to face the monster, teeth bared with determined fury. I dodged as it redoubled and jabbed for my face with the point of its blade, instead finding and jamming into the rock beneath me. While it struggled to pull free, I wasted no time. With a crushing force and a shouting exhalation, I stabbed the splintered end of the stick into the side of the space between its head and thorax. Once, twice, three times, until I ruptured its basement membrane.

          Over and over again, shouting obscenities I hadn’t known I remembered, until the stick broke apart in my hand, until I nearly severed its head from its body, I attacked it with a depth of hatred I’d never felt before. Squelching beyond the now useless exoskeleton, through its quickly silencing shrieks of pain, drenched in its yellow, translucent ichor and viscera until its metal tang saturated my palate.

          When it went limp, I shoved its weight from atop me and approached the remaining two insects, shards of shattered and yellow-stained wood in my bloody grasp. They recoiled, and I gave a child’s best battle cry. Daring them to try, though I knew I didn’t have the strength to win. But my bluff was enough to send them bounding away.

          I struggled to catch my breath until the shock and lack of oxygen forced me to my knees, dizzy and disoriented. I looked upon the aftermath of my kill, at my gore-slicked and splinter-riddled hands. I marveled at the warrior spirit I’d channeled in those few, short seconds…

          And I cried until there were no more tears left to spill.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          I don’t know exactly how long I sat there, next to the eviscerated carcass of my would-be killer. Long enough for sunset to settle into its pinks and reds. Long enough for the first few stars to shine. I sat there trembling, knees too weak to support my weight. Breath too shallow to speak. I could still taste its death and my rage. Still dripping with the remnants of its murder.

          It was getting late, much later than my mother would tolerate. While this trip up the mountain had been especially traumatic, I couldn’t afford to let it be my last. This was the life of a warrior, I thought. The life of a SOLDIER. With great effort, I collected myself, caught my breath, dried my tears, and slowly made my way back down the trail toward the craggy road more natural, familiar, and inviting.

          With every mound or crevice that had to be leapt rather than walked, I became more painfully aware of my every bruise and sore muscle. With every surface I had to climb down, I became aware of the weakness and lacerations of my grip. A swelling breeze whistling through the hills dried and flaked the film of the insect’s lifeblood still clinging to my skin, and I became aware of the putrid stench that enveloped me.

          I couldn’t walk through my door looking and smelling like that. My visage would be hard enough to explain away without it. I stopped for a cold and agonizing dip in the river. The dirty, rushing water stung in my every cut and scrape. The silty bog and frog piss wouldn’t make for a cleansing bath, but walking through the door a sopping wet, scraped up, mangled heap would definitely be easier to explain. Extreme, yes, but not entirely out of the realm of typical childhood mishaps.

          When I was clean enough to present a plausible alibi, I pressed onward. The sunset had now entirely receded, and the starlight was my only comfort in the thick of a garden of shadows. Every silhouette in the dark, another potential monster threatening to eat me. The increasing wind against my wet skin chilled and cut me to the bone. 

          I started to cry again. I was desperate for the safety and warmth of my bed, even if I had to weather my mother’s tongue-lashing to get there. Less than a mile now. I could see the rooftops on the horizon, smell the hickory and flint of their evening hearths. Sweet and savory airs of dinners served. 

          Home.

          Five hundred feet now. One hundred. As I limped to my house, inch by inch, I could see my mother running toward me from our open doorway. Shouting something I couldn’t hear in what was either panic or anger. Likely both. We both stopped in our tracks when we heard Tifa shriek from her bedroom window.

          “Cloud!!” She screamed, rushing downstairs and through her door with a haste I hadn’t seen in her since our happier days.

          She wrapped her arms around me, caring little for the filthy river water soaking her clothing.

          “Where were you?! We looked everywhere for you! You… you weren’t at the well, and then you weren’t anywhere, and then it got late, and… and… w-what…”

          Her panicked, tearful rambling stammered to silence when I groaned in pain at the pressure of her embrace. She stepped back and stared at me, speechless. I was battered, bruised, and black-eyed. Cut, scored, and bloodied. I looked at the tattered shreds of my hands that fought against the blade, still pooling blood from my wounds in their creases, and caked in the thicker patches of that bastard’s remains that refused to come clean.

          She stared at them, too, taking my upturned hands gently in hers. She struggled to speak.

          “Cloud… what… what happened…?” She whispered, stunned and horrified.

          I swallowed my sobs, heaved what little breath I had to the surface of my lungs. Staring into the Cabernet splendor of her eyes with the bloodshot horror of mine, I grasped her shoulders and spoke with a gravity I feared may scare her, but which I desperately needed her to hear. Through stunted gasps, I sickly croaked my vow…

          “Tifa… I… I swear to you… I will never… let anything hurt… you... ever… again…” The last of my air was spent in a wheezing, labored moan.

          Her expression was of the sort that escapes meaningful description, but to be understood immediately. And what I understood was that she didn’t understand. She had no idea what to make of my appearance, let alone my words. But she was certain that I meant what I’d said, for whatever meaning and context she lacked to fully comprehend. For whatever feelings remained secret from her, to never tell of how they’d inspired everything standing before her. Both my pain, and my survival. Both for her.

          I locked my gaze with hers only a moment longer, just long enough to know she’d heard me. Long enough to see that she had no response. I released my grip and stared at my hands once more, now quivering for even that small effort, and having streaked her sleeves with filth and blood. Lowering them to my sides, I stared at my feet and slogged past her toward my mother, muttering to myself nervously.

          “I fell in the river… I just fell… Tripped and fell, and… and there were sharp rocks…and…” I rehearsed as my vision blurred and faded.

          She didn’t shout. She didn’t scold me. She just hugged me and cried into my shoulder. Whatever ire of hers awaited me, and whatever lies I would tell her to abate it, would wait until tomorrow. For now, she was content to know that I was home and safe. Which was for the best.

          I only had a few more seconds of consciousness left to hear whatever she would have said, anyway.