Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue

Her Motif in Amorevole

          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 retched 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

Her Intermezzo in Regret

        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.

Chapter Text

 VII

Her Requiem in Parting

          I’d fallen into the river.

          That’s all my mother knew. As far as I was concerned, that was all she would ever know. Regardless, I would still receive a dire scolding for disappearing and going where I knew I ought not go. She’d carried me to bed, and I wouldn’t awaken until early afternoon the following day. But she’d been saving quite the lecture for me once I was up, around, and healthy enough to hear it.

          It would be a week before I saw the light of day again. My mother’s punishment, but really, I think she just didn’t want me out of the house in my condition. She wanted me nearby where she could nurse me, and she spent every second of that week coddling and loving me. Honestly, I think much of that love was for my father. The hindsight care and tenderness she thought might have kept him home and safe, had she been of the mind to give it. She didn’t want me to repeat that painful history.

          I spent most of that time resting and healing, though plagued by more than a few nightmares. Most of them involving the beady eyes, shrieks, and spattering blood of that insect horror. A few, though, were about the fall. About Tifa’s prone, fragile form as she lay unconscious, wavering between life and death. About her dying in that coma, never to wake or smile, never to grow or dream. Those were the ones that steeled me against the trauma that might have otherwise kept me from ever going that far up the mountain again.

          Tifa… I didn’t see her that week. My mother told me she’d come by once or twice, wanting to know how I was feeling. But she never came in to visit, though I knew mom certainly would have offered. I had scared her. Startled her, at the very least. She probably didn’t even know what to say to me, and I really didn’t know how to explain myself. Maybe I should have never said anything. Maybe I should have kept it to myself…

          After a while, after the bumps, bruises, and scrapes had all healed and life had returned to normal, we’d returned to our usual routine. I swore that I would return to the mountain again, but for now, I was gun shy. I kept seeing that monster every time I closed my eyes, and I couldn’t muster the courage just yet. So, for a time, I returned to watching her from the well. 

          We still didn’t talk. The boys still stared daggers at me and tried to convince her to leave me behind. She still refused. They still hated me, and I still hated them. None of that changed, but… something did. Her expression. It had softened, turned more tolerant. Only slightly, so subtly that I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it. Then, one evening, as we returned to our homes, and I expected the same awkward stare I’d gotten used to…

          She smiled at me.

          Not a big smile, nor even particularly endearing. Small and subtle, just at the corners of her lips. The same smile she gave me when she first saw my sign. A smile of forgiveness and acknowledgment. A smile that told me that she still cared, and that I still mattered.

          My mind raced, I didn’t quite know what I felt. But I smiled back in reflex, the true disposition of my heart, whether for being unable to resist or to actively reach out to her and make itself known. She’d always brought out that part of me, even when I wished to hide it. Even when embarrassment made me disingenuous, she could always strip away those cold outer layers and expose the warm part of me that existed only for her.

          That night, I was gifted with a full concerto. She played happily, loudly, and left her window open wider than usual. Not explicitly for me, but… I liked to believe that it was. Old songs, practiced and near-perfected. Newer songs, unrefined but joyful. Her mother’s song, with more heart than ever. And one last encore, late into the hours meant for sleep.

          “Cloud…” I heard her whisper-shout from her window.

          I had nearly fallen asleep, but the sudden sound of my name in her voice started me awake. Again, I wasn’t sure if I'd imagined it. I hurriedly moved toward the window, crouching beneath the windowsill, and listened hard. I didn’t know why, but if she was there, I didn’t want to be seen.

          “Cloud…” she continued, “I… I don’t know if you’re awake, but… I wrote a new one, and… I just thought, maybe… well… Anyway, I hope you like it…”

          And then she played. For me. 

          As softly and secretly as I’d first heard her mother’s song, but for my ears only. A song of autumn reds and burnt umbers before the set of summer. A calming, mellow refrain of cooler days and dormant flowers, of subdued fondness and surreptitious reverie. Simple, as all of her original compositions were since she’d lost her mother’s guidance. But clear and meaningful. A visceral vision of her heart unlike any I had seen since the days she first began to learn.

          I sat there, curled into myself beneath the window and the late summer breeze, listening attentively to the music of a later season. Spellbound, and moreover, renewed. Emboldened and restored to my resolve. Even as the last few notes fluttered upon the air and into the night, even in the silence, hope and enthusiasm rang in sharp goosebumps across my skin, surged through me with intoxicating relief. I couldn’t stop smiling.

“Goodnight…” she whispered, followed by the latch of her closing window.

          She was playing for me. 

          She still thought of me. 

          I was still… her friend…

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          “Pretty song”

          I spelled it right this time. Not as grand, and with smaller rocks, directly outside her front door. With a single daffodil and a note:

          “I won’t be at the well today. Don’t worry. I’ll be careful from now on.”

          And I would be. Facing danger was one thing, needlessly risking my life was another. From then on, I went more prepared. A satchel with some food and water, a few tools, first-aid, and a weapon of some kind. Usually, something I found lying around on the way up the mountain. An old gardening tool, or a better stick. Nothing my mother would notice was missing. Nothing I couldn’t abandon or hide before I walked through our door for the night.

          It was an early morning, earlier than most. As much as I wanted to wait for her to discover my message, I also wanted to take advantage of every second that I could. The earlier I got started, the more I’d get out of the day, the earlier I’d get home, and the less likely I’d be caught. Plus, I figured putting more work into any given day would permit me a day or two to rest every now and then. A day to spend at the well and watch, to let her know that I was safe.

          Still, though I made an effort to reassure her and my mother, that incident wouldn’t be the last mishap. And it wouldn’t be the last set of injuries I’d have to explain. I’d have a number of close calls, both with monsters and with the mountain itself. And while I was always able to think up a believable story, it was still enough to make both Tifa and my mother worry. Yet, I persevered. Learned to defend myself, to survive with no one else to count on. 

          I mastered memorizing and navigating as much of the mountain path as I could. I didn’t kill any more monsters, but I sent several limping away for making the attempt on my life, and gave still more a convincing argument not to. Should we ever find ourselves stranded there again, I was determined to be able to protect her and see her to safety on my own. I wouldn’t count on the adults to rescue us like last time, let alone at the tips of lying children.

          Everything south of the broken rope bridge, everything I could reach, I explored. Every cave, fissure, pit and valley I could reach on foot and get myself out alive. Every day was another adventure, another chance to get hurt or lost, and another chance to survive or die. The only thing that constrained me to the south end was the lack of a bridge, and that was definitely for the best. In hindsight, knowing now what was waiting farther to the north, my bravado would have gotten me killed.

          In fact, my immature one-upmanship nearly resulted in just that, and much closer to home. One day, I’d heard that idiot, Emilio, managed to get himself stuck in the river much farther up the rapids. Trying to show off for Tifa, no doubt. The townsfolk had to pull him out with several lengths of rope. Well, it turns out that I wasn’t much smarter. For the same reason, telling myself that it was just more training, but secretly wanting to be better than him, I braved those rapids for myself. Told myself that I could swim to the other side, where he had failed. 

          I couldn’t.

          By then, summer was coming to an end, and the temperature was dropping. That day was not a particularly warm one, which made it a horrible day for a swim. Of course, I simply told myself that the cold would make me stronger, because I had the common sense of a child. My mistake almost immediately made itself evident as I submerged myself chest-deep.

          I only meant to acclimate myself, to make it easier to swim through the cold. But, within a few minutes, the cold began to stiffen and weaken my muscles. While I’d chosen a spot farther upstream with a gentler current, it didn’t take much to rob me of my footing. Once swept into the river’s flow, it was a struggle to regain control. A struggle that I could not win.

          The farther downstream I was swept, the faster the current raged against me, the stronger its force pressed against my already stiff and numbing muscles. I was slowed only when the flow dashed me against a rock here and there, the foam-slick surface of each I failed to grasp with each battering collision. Every blow sapped me of air and the will to fight, until the heavy spray of the lapping waves forced my head below the surface, again and again, silencing my screams.

          Choking, coughing, sputtering, I was forced to desperately scramble for the surface every few seconds. Every brief, shallow breath of air was a spoil of war. It was only by pure luck that the rushing current raked me past a thorny bush jutting from the side of one of the larger rocks. After painfully scraping beneath it, I quickly reached up and grabbed one of its agonizing branches for dear life, a gracious host of thorns stabbing deep into my palm.

          The rush of the surrounding water tugged my body weight against my grip, jabbing the thorns deeper into my hand. I was losing hold of the branch. As painful as it was, my only option was to climb across the other branches, one at a time, until I could reach the edge of the rock to pull myself up. Each grasp was a new punishment to my skin, each one weakening my hold. I nearly didn’t make it. And when I did, another unpleasant obstacle awaited me.

        Before I could pull myself out of the water, a shadow came slithering from below the bush. A water snake, very agitated and intolerant of my presence in its territory. It hissed and reared its head to strike. It wasn’t poisonous, but the pain of the bite would have been enough to undo my already fragile grip. I had no idea how it managed to get this far down the rapids without being swept away, but it was the snake or me. It had to go.

        As slowly as could be allowed by the rising sense of urgency, I reached for the weapon I had favored for the past few trips. An old, rusted garden trowel I’d stolen from a neighbor’s junk pile and sharpened against a boulder. With one quick, swooping motion, I stabbed the trowel just below its head, severing it with a wrenching twist.

          I didn’t like killing. I didn’t like it any more than when I killed that insect. But I would if I must, and I had to be okay with that.

          Once clear of the danger, I heaved the rest of my weight onto the small patch of land. Released from the violent pull of the river and reintroduced to gravity, the bruises and soreness made it hard to stand, and the slick surface made standing perilous. With the impact of the rushing water pounding at my ankles, I wouldn’t be able to remain still for long. I had to keep moving before the river knocked me from my feet.

          I spotted a chain of smaller rocks, apparently stretching the span of the river to the other side, and each just a short jump apart. If I could manage to keep my balance, and if I were careful to place my jumps just right, I could make it. It was my only shot. Each hop was slow and methodical, and even then, I nearly toppled a few times. All for naught, as I was met with disappointment.

        I hadn’t seen what I thought I had. Yes, the rocks did continue to the other side, but only on the other side of a gap nobody could jump, not even an athletic adult. Not unless they were one of those SOLDIER people. Fortunately, that gap spanned a relatively calm eddy, thanks to a much larger obstruction farther up river. But even still, with all I’d been through, I wouldn’t have the strength to make the swim before I was swept back into the rapids. The river had swept me below the broken bridge long ago, and not far from there, it would terminate in a waterfall that I would most certainly not survive.

          I sat there with my feet in the water, discouraged, for several minutes. I considered crying for help, but nobody was going to hear me this far down river. Not as far as I was from town, and not with the sound of the crashing water around me. Besides, even on the off chance that someone did, I would be damned if I was going to be rescued by anyone else. Especially not after Emilio had made the same mistake. It would just be horrible humiliation, followed by my mother never letting me leave the house again.

          Anyone without a death wish would have said that was preferable to meeting a gruesome end, but at the time, I didn’t see it that way. It was either make it on my own and be worthy, or fail and be better off dead. If I couldn’t be her protector, I wouldn’t stand to be her burden.

          Thankfully, I had one last saving grace. Some years ago, I’d heard a hiker passing through town speaking with another stranger. A man of great experience. In passing, I’d heard him say that a length of rope can be the difference between life and death on any trek. Today, I would be grateful that I’d listened to him. I’d brought some in my satchel. Only about fifteen feet or so, and not particularly thick or strong, but it would do if I could only find a way to secure it to the other side of the gap.

          In this, the trowel came in handy one last time. There was a crop of smaller rocks dotted around the next foothold. If I could fashion a sort of grappling hook and wedge the breadth of the blade between two of them, I might be able to use it to pull myself across. I tied the rope as tightly to its handle as I could manage, and after about ten or fifteen minutes of repeated attempts, I finally managed to hook a gap.

          I tugged at the rope with the full strength of my arms. Once, twice. It wasn’t very sturdy, and I wasn’t entirely confident that it would hold my weight indefinitely. But it would hold, at least for a short while. It would have to do. Slowly, I lowered myself into the water, firmly gripping the rope. The current was calm enough here. I could do this.

          Steadily, I pulled myself along. As I progressed, I could feel the trowel’s blade rattling, and my resolve rattled along with it. I was half-way across the gap. If it failed here, I would be at the mercy of the river, and I would have no chance of freeing myself again before reaching the waterfall. I had to hurry.

          Looping the rope around my arm with each new tug, I pulled harder and in greater strides. But the cold was beginning to bite into my flesh again, and the wind was picking up, intensifying the chill. The elements sought to crush me, but I resisted tooth and nail. And I was inches away when it happened -- the trowel handle snapped from its tang, taking the rope and my tether with it. With a final few lunging grasps and a flurry of desperate kicks, the tips of my fingers found the nearest rock as I clawed my way to a more solid grip.

          I’d made it. Against all odds, I’d cheated death once again.

          A few more footholds, a few more short hops, and I found myself sitting on the bank. Soaked, exhausted, and gulping gallons of precious air. I held the bent and twisted remains of my broken trowel. It had saved my life, but it wouldn’t be seeing any further battles. As I sat there, staring at my bruises, rope-burned arms, and sprained wrist, I brainstormed another alibi. Another “fall” in the river? No. With these kinds of repeated “mistakes”, my mother would surely forbid me from every water source for miles around.

        Fortunately, it was still the early afternoon and, while not very warm, the skies were mostly clear. I’d have time to rest and dry before I headed home. Whatever I would tell her, mom wouldn’t have to know about this tranquil little dip. I thought I’d enjoy the simple sandwich I’d prepared for lunch while I waited, but of course, the ordeal had rendered it a soggy, inedible pile of mush in the trapped puddle of my now tattered satchel. So much for the ‘air-tight’ wrapping I was sure I’d perfected; back to the drawing board on that one. With an annoyed sigh, I tossed it into the river and hoped some lucky fish would get to enjoy it. My offering for the life I'd ended earlier, I supposed. 

          With no energy left for the struggle, I lied on my back and gazed at what few clouds there were to see. And I reflected on how I’d changed. How I’d kept calm and collected, and how I’d overcome the seemingly impossible. For Tifa, I would happily face this and more. I would laugh in the face of death a thousand times if it meant I could keep her safe.

          I wasn’t afraid.

          Through adversity, whether by trial or foolishness, I was growing stronger. Wiser. More resourceful. Not so timid, though not much to the benefit of my social skills. But confident and fearless. Slowly, but surely, I was making myself into someone dependable. A man of my own making. A man worthy of her trust and affection.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          That was how life continued for the next couple of years. My self-imposed training pressed on, regularly risking life and limb, as I saw no value in my existence if I couldn’t protect hers. Living on the prospect of promised power, however artificial, as I idolized Sephiroth and “SOLDIER honor”. All in secret, though subverting their expectations of my behavior and evident well-being.

          The new song she’d played for me that night was not her final effort to reach out. Whatever cause she’d had to avoid me had, for her, washed away long ago. Whether or not she still thought I was at fault, she didn’t like to hold grudges, and she was healthy again. Functional and adjusted, if not happy. She wanted to close the gap. I still wasn’t sure how much she remembered of our friendship, but she made it perfectly clear that she still valued me. Saying hello, inviting me to play, and most of all, playing her piano especially for me.

          Alas, I hadn’t been one to heal quite so smoothly. Something was still wrong with me, and the trauma and prolonged dejection I’d suffered had done me no favors in that regard. As much as I wanted to spend time at her side, I turned down her invitations or made myself conveniently “busy”. And… I pretended to ignore her. It wasn’t that I resented or hated her. No, I still loved her with all my heart. But for whatever reason, whether lingering indignation, feelings of inadequacy and unworthiness, or simply fear of the possible pain from daring to be that close again, I had grown antipathetic to accepting her kindness or affection.

          For that reason, as Tifa came to understand and know me less and less, the distance between us only increased. As the trauma of Mrs. Lockhart’s death and our fall from the mountain faded into memory, our interactions became fewer. While she remained special to me, I kept silent. And if she’d felt anything similar toward me, she kept silent, as well. We had gone from friends to acquaintances, separated by the circumstances of our lives, by the false history I had let her believe, and by her other friendships I could not abide. In time, even my mother no longer pressed the issue of her importance to me.

          Only her music, which I still furtively admired and adored, sustained my connection to her. Only the occasional reminder that I still listened sustained hers to me. Never again so grand or deliberate as my messages of the past, but discreet hints of my presence and attention. A single daffodil left on her windowsill. A half-eaten apple left atop the well, where there had been none before she began playing. Brief moments of silence when she’d caught me humming along to her melody in the night, whether from my window or behind the well.

          A door that could never fully close.

          The last light in the dark hallway between us. 

          Yet, while not so blatantly, I continued to watch her from a distance. Secretly observing her life and monitoring her welfare, though it often felt wrong. Wanting to be there, but not wanting her to know that I wanted to be there, despite her wanting me to be there. A toxic and suffocating cycle of defeatist self-loathing, denying myself the happiness she likely felt I deserved simply because I felt that I didn't. By my own hand, and for no good reason at all, I became a longing ghost hiding just beyond her sight. Hoping not to be seen, yet praying she would look. 

          By the time we’d both entered into the double-digits, we were effectively strangers. Apart from her dynamic with me, or lack thereof, her life took on new dimensions. Some of which were not entirely welcome. 

          Since the days of Mrs. Lockhart's mourning passed, Tifa's relationship with her father had grown somewhat barbed and irritable. They didn't get along, and their walls weren't always enough to contain the arguments. Now eleven years old, the consensus of the adults was that it was simply the onset of her “rebellious years”, the typical dismissal of childhood agency.

          In truth, her anger and frustration stemmed from a new life of responsibility suddenly thrust upon her. Our traditional coming of age was near at hand, and as such, her father pressured her to assume the domestic learning expected of most girls her age. Though, her circumstances were uniquely unaccommodating, and by extension, uniquely stressful. 

          Cooking, cleaning, sewing, gardening. Homemaking. The skills expected of a rural housewife in a traditional and deliberately antiquated community. A standard from which few had ever deviated or “rebelled”, and accepted by virtually everyone without the modern, urban world to tell them otherwise. A standard traditionally passed from mother to daughter. 

          When Mrs. Lockhart could no longer pass the torch, that task fell upon the shoulders of other women in the community, to whom her father had turned. Each strict in her own way, each demanding. Each equally not her mother, and equally prone to hearing as much during Tifa's more heated outbursts. 

          Somehow, I'd gotten it in my head that, if I learned, too, I might be able to help. Or, at least, understand. To my mother's delight, I started offering to help with chores. Hanging laundry at the same hours as Tifa and whatever mentor with whom she was beset that day, when she might see me and understand what I was trying to do. Once or twice, I'd helped my mother prepare meals. And got in trouble on several occasions when I tried on my own, without permission, and made a terrible mess of her nice, clean kitchen.

          I wouldn't truly get it until it was my mother's turn to take Tifa under her wing. The only interaction she had found welcoming or amicable, given our history and how much mom already loved her. Mom was the nearest thing Tifa had to a mother since her own passed away, and was the first woman in whom she felt she could truly confide. Her task was to teach Tifa the art of a seamstress. Sewing, garment-making and maintenance. One art for which she did hold a slight interest, since the repair of her beloved starfish years ago.

          For a long while, Tifa would take at least a little time out of each day to visit my mother. Supplies in hand, and always a little longer than was required to learn. At the end of each session, she would walk home sucking a new series of painful pricks at her fingertips, but wearing an expression of peace and a posture suggesting she felt lighter than when she arrived. 

          Tifa enjoyed my mother's company, and the feeling was mutual. They'd formed a bond that had been of clearly visible benefit to her. She and I would exchange greetings when she came over for lessons, but mom preferred that I busy myself elsewhere so they could focus. And by ‘focus’, she meant ‘talk privately’. Though I was curious to hear what they’d say, I chose to respect my mother's wishes. It wasn't for me to know, and I already felt ashamed for watching Tifa as often as I did, anyway. 

          So, as most days, I would spend those hours away at the mountain and getting into whatever trouble it would bring. Making myself a little stronger for her sake. But one morning, I lingered a little too long and heard more than I likely should have. As I stood outside, preparing my satchel with the supplies of the day, she walked right past me as though I wasn't even there. Looking tired and morose, which greatly worried me. 

          She’d only been in there for a little while, and I was nearly finished with my preparations, when I heard it.

          “Ouch!” She yelped, muffled by the closed door behind me.

          She’d pricked herself again, I guessed. I winced. I didn’t like hearing her hurt, especially not physically. After the fall, I’d grown particularly sensitive to that. Even with an injury so small and trivial, it raised the hairs on the back of my neck. I heard her throw whatever she’d been holding to the floor as she growled and stamped her feet. My eyes went wide and, against the moral sentiment I’d taken to heart, I pressed my ear against the door and listened.

          She was crying.

          “I hate this! This is so unfair!” She distraughtly trilled. “I don’t wanna do this! How come I gotta cook and clean and stuff just ‘cause I’m a girl?”

          I furrowed my brow in confusion, then in guilt as the realization struck me. I’d made an assumption about her she’d surely resent. She didn’t see herself this way, and neither should I.

          “Oh, honey… come here…” My mother comforted, likely hugging her. “Baby, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. This is just your daddy’s way of taking care of you. He just wants to make sure you’ll grow up able to take care of yourself one day. He’d teach you all of this himself if he could, I’m sure. But men of his generation tend to be useless in the home.” She laughed.

          Tifa laughed, too, albeit through a few more sobs. That was a relief. Mom really was funny when she wanted to be.

          “Don’t think of it as a chore, okay? Just think of it as an excuse to spend some quality time with me. I miss seeing your sweet little face around here.” Mom comforted with a smile in her voice.

          Silence for a few moments.

          “I miss my mom…” Tifa grievously whispered.

          “I know, honey. It’ll be okay.” Mom shushed.

          I hung my head, clutching my belly against a yellow pang of regret. With nothing left to say or do, I picked up my gear and headed for the mountain path. Most days, I’d spend this walk wondering if they ever spoke of me. If Tifa still thought of me, or missed me when she spent time in our home. Hoping she did, and that her hope would endure the time without me while I sought for the courage to reach out and fix things. That day, I only wondered what kind of woman she’d grow up to be. If I’d recognize her, and if she’d have any use for a man like me.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          I hated to see Tifa so angry and depressed. I only wanted to help, but until I overheard that exchange, I hadn't understood the full scope of the problem, either. I’d been raised to believe the same as everyone else, that this was simply a part of growing up. But it didn't have to be. It wasn't for her, and without her mother, it amounted to little more than needless suffering. Tifa was a free-spirit. She was never inclined to fill such a humble and repressed role, let alone prescribed to her against her will. 

          I had assumed Tifa’s frustration came from the difficulty of learning. I had no idea she felt so trapped. And, shamefully, I also hadn’t considered the painful feelings it would stir up about her mother. I was made to think of Mrs. Lockhart whenever I heard the sound of the piano, but that was the only way in which I’d ever known her. To Tifa, memories of her mother existed in every facet of her life. Her absence in this was bound to be especially painful.

          Truthfully, and a bit selfishly, I was disappointed. The idea of her being a cookie-cutter housewife was never something I had considered important one way or the other. I’d just been looking for a way back into her good graces. I knew I’d been a fool, and I thought this may be something over which we could bond. A way that I could be of help again in another difficult period of her life. 

          Yet, this wasn't what she wanted. And, being the way that I was, it didn’t occur to me that I didn’t need an excuse or a purpose to repair our friendship. I just had to be sincere. But sincerity involved transparency, which had never been my strong suit. Electively, at least. In my mind, unless I objectively brought something good to her life, I didn’t deserve a place in it.

          Still, I continued with what I’d learned. I had a knack for sewing, in particular. With all the hazardous scrapes in which I frequently found myself, I figured it might be a useful skill to have. Besides… what if Tifa lost another patch one day? Maybe I could be the one to repair it next time. No, that was silly… She didn’t wear childish patches like that anymore.

          Or did she?

          What if I made her one? Would she wear it? Maybe a dolphin. She liked dolphins. She still used that dolphin lampshade, after all. A fact that I probably shouldn’t have known, given how long it had been since I was invited into her room.

          These were the thoughts that ran through my head one spring afternoon as I practiced, sitting in the shade of our old climbing tree, mending an old shirt of my father’s that mom wouldn’t mind tossing out if I didn’t do a good enough job. Looking at my work so far, I was satisfied and confident. And I’d only pricked my finger a couple of times.

          “Maybe I will make her that patch, after all.” I said aloud with a self-satisfied little smirk. “Just because.”

          I only had a moment to savor the feeling before a hail of sand and dust clouded my vision, disrupted my focus, and soured my mood. Emilio, no doubt. I could already hear his goons laughing.

          “Hey, Cloud! What’cha got there, buddy? Doing a little knitting?” Emilio taunted.

          I sighed. They hadn’t done this for a while. What made them decide to pick a fight today, I had no idea. But I had no more tears for them, nor anger. And I wasn’t afraid.

          “Sewing.” I calmly corrected, standing and brushing myself off. He laughed.

          “Ooh, sorry. You hear that, boys? Sewing.” He derided. “That’s good, Cloud. You’ll make someone a good wife one day.”

          I said nothing. Once again, I couldn’t understand what made these idiots so appealing to Tifa. I didn’t care about gender roles, or any such nonsense, and I didn’t understand why they mattered so much. That’s not what this was about, but I wasn’t about to explain myself to mouth-breathers like them.

          It was time to put an end to this.

          I looked over Emilio’s shoulder, and I didn’t see Tifa with them. That was good. I didn’t want her to have to see this.

          I stepped close to him, into his personal space. Not meant to intimidate so much as to illustrate that he didn’t scare me. He was taller than me, always had been. But, by then, I’d faced many monsters bigger and more frightening than him. Monsters that were actual threats to my life. Emilio was just a loudmouth who barely knew how to throw a punch, who got stuck in rivers and cried.

          “...Are you done?” I dismissed, locking eye contact. Tyler and Lester went silent. Emilio’s expression hardened from taunting to actual anger.

          “Getting a little big for your breeches, aren’t you?” He spat, shoving me. In years past, it would have been enough to knock me to the ground. Now, his push moved me little more than a stiff breeze.

          I pushed him back. Hard, leaning into it and braced into my right foot planted firmly behind me. I expected him to stagger, but I didn’t expect to move him so far. He tripped over his own heels and plopped ungracefully to the ground while I continued to walk toward him with even, confident strides. Staring him down, cold and expressionless.

          He scrambled to his feet, only making it half-way up before I closed the distance. I placed my foot flat against his sternum and kicked forward, knocking him harder and farther than before, toward the river’s edge. Those trips up the mountain were beginning to pay off. I scarcely knew my own strength, but I wasn’t about to dial it back. I wanted him to leave scared. Wanted to draw the line nice and bold, so he knew never to cross it again.

          I closed the distance again, quickly this time. He gritted his teeth in frustrated humiliation as I grabbed him by the collar, dragging him closer to the water while he impotently struggled. I walked ankle deep into the murk, slamming him to his back in the water and half submerging his head, facing him up to look me in the eyes. Tyler and Lester tried to pull me off of him, but I shoved them away just as easily. Like papier mache dolls, soft and spongy children who posed no further threat to me.

          “Now, open your stupid ears and listen good.” I coldly demanded. He stared at me in shock. “This is what’s going to happen from now on. You’re going to leave me alone. This ends now. I don’t care if you don’t like me, I don’t care if you don’t like me watching Tifa, and you’re going to stop trying to turn her against me. If she has a problem with me, she can tell me herself. And if she decides to be my friend again, you’re going to stay away from us when I’m with her. This is your one and only warning.”

          He stuttered non-verbally. I twisted his collar around my fist, dragging his face close to mine.

          “You got that?” I threateningly spat. He nodded wordlessly and in panic.

          I dragged him up by his collar and walked him to dry land, throwing him to the ground.

          “Get out of my sight and go dry yourself off. You can whine about this to Tifa or my mom if you want. But, something tells me your pride is too hurt to say anything. Either way, you heard what I said. Try this again, and I won’t be so nice next time.”

          They scampered away in fear, just like I wanted them to. Stuttering with frightened gasps and shouts, facing me in fear that I may pursue.

          That was the last time they ever picked on me.

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          Things changed for the better after that. I received no further grief from the other boys. I felt no need to hide anymore. Rather than shooting me dirty looks and antagonizing me, they preferred to pretend that I didn’t exist. They also made no further effort to dissuade Tifa from acknowledging my existence, or to convince her to relocate whenever I was around. Apparently, I’d scared them enough that they genuinely listened.

          If Tifa suspected anything had happened, she never gave any indication. Never said anything to me about it. Nor to them, evidently. Moreover, she seemed happier for the lack of conflict and awkwardness in the air. Truthfully, when I had the upper hand, I was tempted to threaten them. To tell them to keep away from her once and for all. But, as my mother had once told me, I couldn’t choose her friends. And even if I could, I wouldn’t want to. As much as it irked me that she could enjoy their company, she did. And I wouldn’t take that away from her. Her happiness mattered to me far more than my lingering contempt.

          Regardless, Emilio and the others presented no obstacle anymore. Now, the only thing standing between Tifa and me was my own foolish knot of pride and regret. I needed only to get over myself to have a place in her life again, but that was easier said than done. All that was water under the bridge for her still weighed heavily on my heart. All that she couldn’t remember, I could never forget. It had changed the nature of our friendship, and whatever it may become, forever.

          As spring came to an end, the frequency of Tifa’s visits with my mother slowed and eventually stopped. I would never learn of what they’d spoken, whether or not it involved me. Likely more for what mom presumed of my feelings for her, or lack thereof. Or, for all I knew, simply to spare me from any further heartache she feared their secret conversations might have caused. In our household, Tifa and our friendship were a rare topic once again.

          Every year, as summer rolled in, our academic lessons were generally put on hold. We were free to enjoy the weather and get in as much play as we could. Surprisingly, Tifa kept up with some of her domestic learnings. She wasn’t much for cleaning and housework, but she did seem to enjoy cooking once she’d gotten the hang of it. And she’d kept up her practice as a seamstress, even if only as an excuse to visit my mother on occasion. Still secretly from me, of course, though the excuse of “focusing” didn’t hold as much weight anymore.

          For me, that summer wasn’t a time for play. I was twelve, and in the fall, I would finally be thirteen. It was my turn to go out and find my way in this world. With the other boys my age, including Emilio and the others, I would be leaving Nibelheim. Leaving everything I ever knew to face the world and come back a better man. With my application to Shinra Security Forces already in the mail, I was Midgar-bound.

          I would be leaving… her….

          But for good cause. For her sake. Shinra Security would make for humble beginnings, but it was a pre-requisite to joining the ranks of SOLDIER. If I could make it there, I was one step closer to my ultimate goal. One step closer to becoming the man I needed to be for her. 

          That summer, I should have been putting my all into training. Giving myself one final push to prepare for the rigors of military service. Yet, I found myself dawdling. Resting on my laurels in town, most often at the well. That summer was different for another reason, one that had been slowly surfacing for a while now.

          Tifa… was growing up. We all were. She wasn’t the sweet little cherub she had been when I first met her anymore. She’d matured, especially this past year. She didn’t quite have the silhouette of a grown woman just yet, but she was a young lady. Not just another kid, but… a girl. A pretty girl. Very pretty. And feelings were changing.

          While they were still friends, Tifa had unwittingly caused something of a rift between Emilio and the others. They still hung out together, still engaged in the stupid behaviors that so annoyed me, and enjoyed it as much as they ever did. But now, they were prone to quarrels in seeking Tifa’s favor. They were competing for her attention. Fighting over her.

          I didn’t like it.

          Yet, I wasn’t compelled to intervene. It wasn’t my place, and I didn’t want to stoop to their level. Besides, after a time, they’d begun to dig their own graves in her eyes, anyhow. For all of their very obvious more-than-friendly affections, Tifa had no response. She liked to ignore their advances, keep them grounded. She wasn’t interested. Or, at the very least, she didn’t want to change the nature of their friendship. And she most certainly didn’t like this passive-aggressive rivalry over her.

          In the end, it seemed that she simply didn’t want them to see her that way, though there was naught to be done about it. It was inevitable. Then, they started making matters worse. Doing things she didn’t like, “romantic” gestures that made her uncomfortable and for which she did not care to reciprocate. But more than that, they said things she most definitely didn’t want to hear. Promises of things she never wanted.

          Emilio, at least, had promised her much. Like me, he was bound for Midgar. He boasted that he would “make it big” there, whatever that meant. And, foolishly, he promised to come back for her and “give her the good life”. Swearing she would want for nothing, living in glitz and glam in the big city. 

          She didn’t like that. I could see it on her face, though he was too oblivious to get it. She never said it aloud, but I could tell what she was thinking. He was deciding for her what her life would be, never considering what she wanted, or any ambitions she may have for herself. It offended her. And, unbeknownst to him, it turned her off from him. I don’t think she liked him quite as much after that.

          He hadn’t been paying attention. I’d spent the past few years alienated from all of them. If I could see it, he certainly should have. Still, I couldn’t blame him. I couldn’t blame any of them. They’d fallen for her. Maybe not like I had, nor for the same reasons, but in a way to be expected of boys our age. And love, even puppy love, makes one say and do reckless things.

          Honestly, had I not heard of her grief during her tutelage under my mother, and had our history not unfolded in the tragic way that it had, I likely would have promised her something similar. The gesture was in ignorance, not insensitivity or lack of caring. Again, it was what we’d been raised to believe. But knowing what I knew, I would not deign to burden her with a life she never sought for herself. I wanted her to follow her heart, and to do whatever would make her happy.

          But my feelings were changing, too. I loved her just the same as I always had. In that, I had been miles ahead of the other boys, and likely still was. But there was a new element to it. Something more primal. It still wasn’t that kind of attraction yet, not on that level. But those days were fast approaching

          When I looked at her, I would notice new things. Feel new things. The sheen of her hair, the way it blew in the wind. Her subtle scent as I walked by, hints of her garden, and floral soaps and lotions. Her eyes, which had always been beautiful, now shone brighter than ever before. So bright, I averted my eyes. My heart would pound so hard, I felt it might burst. The palms of my hands would sweat. My mouth would go dry. And when I saw her smile, my breath would halt in my chest.

          Her image was burned into my mind now. I would marvel at how amazing she looked in any dress, in any color. And every night, I would wonder what color she would wear the next day. She was springtime, unbound. She was poetry. She looked the way her music sounded, early signs of the radiance for which her mother had been known. 

          Truthfully… it complicated things. It would be even harder to leave now.

          But I had to go. Unlike the other boys, I had only one promise for her. A promise I made years ago, and that I’d made to myself every night since we fell from that mountain. A promise that I would somehow gather the courage to tell her properly before I left. Practicing it in my mind, over and over again, before I went to sleep. Especially the nights that I heard her play.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          Over the years, the sound of the piano became increasingly rare. More often than not, I reasoned that the day’s grind of responsibility and lessons left her without the drive to pursue it. Occasionally, I thought she may be losing interest. Yet, her play never lacked the enthusiasm and passion I’d come to expect. However little she played, it clearly remained a critical part of who she was. She still spoke through song, and with honed skill to honor the memory of her mother. 

          These days, her original compositions didn’t have much of a place. She tended to frequent her mother’s favorite works, especially those that colored our earliest childhood. The songs I knew from before we met, the way I knew Mrs. Lockhart before I ever met her. The sound of calm nights and peaceful sleep, of symphonic preambles to Tifa’s chaotic, discordant, and joyful explosions of noise.

          Melodies of bassinet dreams and my mother's soothing arms. Serenades of first words and first steps. Songs of crawling, of teething, of learning, of growing. The mellifluous voice of my unknowing second mother, of a woman beloved by the world and taken in her prime. The music of her legacy, reborn and flourishing in her only daughter. 

          She wasn’t playing for me anymore. At least, I don’t think so. She didn’t mention it, didn’t ask for me in the night for a private audience. But, whether she considered me or not, I never stopped listening. And the closer my time came, the more homesickness already crept over me. It would be this sound, this memory, that I would carry closest to my heart into the great, bustling unknown.

          While it was still far away, the idea was attractive. City lights, civilized people, culture, and glory at arms. But as the day drew nearer, I became dreadfully aware of myself. Of who and what I was, and how small I was. City lights became city noises and sleepless nights. Civilized people became rich metropolitans and rude urbanites; cruel, uncaring strangers. Culture became the fear of being different and lesser for my rural upbringing. 

          Glory at arms became… death. On a battlefield, far from home. Far from her. Lost and unaccounted for. Never to return, little more than a fading memory. A face she’d forget, and feelings she’d never know…

          Maybe I’d made a mistake…

          No.

          She was worth the risk. To me, her life was worth a thousand of mine. With all she’d suffered, she deserved a better kind of friend. A real friend… a man, one day… who would take care of her. Not control her, rule over her, or subjugate her to a life in his shadow. But one who would walk beside her in life. Who would go with her and uplift her, wherever dreams and possibilities might take her, confident that he could keep her safe and happy however she chose to live.

          I could be that man. I would be that man.

          But… would she wait for me? Would my promise… would it mean as little to her as Emilio’s words? Was I just as selfish? Would she… hate me? 

          My stomach was gelid and frostbitten. My nerves were rattled and undone. The day that I finally decided to tell her was the first day in months that I’d hidden from her. And I hid the entire day, wondering how I was ever going to summon the courage. She had been going about her day peacefully, unremarkably. Expecting very little, if any, interaction with me. As usual. 

          It somehow felt unfair. I didn’t know how often she thought of me these days, or if she thought of me at all. For all I knew, and often hoped, she longed for me as much as I did for her. Of course, I had no reason to believe that, and every reason to believe the contrary. She barely even looked in my direction anymore. 

          Here I was, tied in knots. To her, this was just another day.

          What had I been doing all this time? All those trips up the mountain, the countless times I’d tempted and escaped death. Refusing to reach across the aisle. Refusing to reconcile, or even to talk to her. Disappearing from her life, yet treasuring her in my heart. Caring about nothing more than her welfare, yet barely existing to her.

          What was I doing?

          The more I tried to convince myself to approach her, the more I felt like a fool for even considering it. I felt unstable. Psychotic. I felt every bit like the creep Emilio and the other jerks made me out to be. All the self-improvement and confidence I’d afforded myself over the past few years was crumbling in a matter of hours. I hated myself.

          She’d been social that day, and that was part of why I was hiding. If I was going to humiliate myself, it wasn’t going to be with an audience. It was only by the grace of a split second when she was alone, a fleeting chance I feared would pass too quickly more than I feared her reaction, that I found the motivation to act. 

          She was standing near the general store, somewhat distracted with a list in her hand. She’d learned to bake a while ago, one discipline included in her lessons that she enjoyed, and I’d seen her do this a number of times since then. She was alone, and I knew she’d be standing there for at least a few more seconds as she triple checked the ingredients she needed. But I wasn’t going to follow her inside and risk running into Emilio. 

          This was it. I swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and approached. From behind, much too quickly, and probably too quietly. Sneaking up on her probably wasn’t the smartest way to do this. I don’t know what I was thinking.

          “Hey…” I unintentionally whispered, tapping her on the shoulder.

          I startled her, of course.

          “Cloud?!” She yelped. “Jeez, you scared me!”

          “Sorry…” I mumbled shyly. “Um… Meet me at the well at midnight, okay? I… I have something to tell you…”

          Her face turned red. I was probably standing too close.

          “O-okay…” She nervously stammered.

          Without speaking another word, and still feeling quite foolish, I ran home. Straight to my bed, hugging my knees and burying my face in them in embarrassment. My heart was racing, my skin tingling. My breath was shallow and stilted.

          All that was left was to tell her. But the weight of it sat on my shoulders, nearly too heavy to bear. All of my pain, my regret, my longing, and the feelings of happiness I’d so desperately wanted to reclaim. My days at her side as she lost her mother, which she may not have even remembered. The many hours I spent watching her sleep, and praying she would awaken. My letter that Emilio destroyed, and those three words that I’d so very nearly conveyed. The truth of that day on the mountain, why I’d been distant, and all that I’d been doing since. All for her sake.

All of these things screamed through my mind like a deafening hurricane as I struggled to find the right words. I only had a few hours before I’d tell her… whatever I was going to tell her. If I screwed this up and made her uncomfortable or upset her, I feared, there would be no second chance.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          I thought she would never come, and I was getting a little cold.

          We were in the last nights of summer, and the first nights of autumn. While daylight was still pleasant, every sunset ushered in a chilly bluster. My final summer with her was coming to a close. And yet, it turned out that I’d have a little more time with her than I'd expected earlier that day. When I got home, there was a letter waiting from Shinra in response to my application. Where every other boy would be leaving in the fall, as was the tradition, I would remain in town until the following spring.

          In so many words, they told me that I was the only recruit in the entire town this season. All the recruitment acquisition convoys were too busy with more populated areas, and had neither the time nor the resources to redirect for a single “asset”, as they already referred to me. Ordinarily, isolated candidates like myself were expected to provide their own transportation to headquarters in Midgar. Unfortunately, there were policies in place when it came to the treatment of recruits below a certain age, and they were obliged to see to me personally.

        In effect, they were simply telling me this: “Sit tight, we’ll get to you when we get to you.”

          They were going to leave me to sit on my hands and while away the days for several more months, still living right next door to Tifa, and leaving whatever I would say to her tonight hanging in the air between us in the meantime. Honestly, it felt awkward, and it shook my resolve. I tried to think of a way to postpone, but really, there was no way out.

        We hadn’t spoken in months, and had hardly any direct interaction in years. And now, suddenly, I’d called her out for a very private rendezvous in the middle of the night. She was going to have expectations of some kind. What could I possibly say that would justify this? I’d might as well come clean, whatever the consequences. That was always my intention, anyway.

          Yet, nervous as I was, I was left to ponder the expression on her face before I’d left. The more I thought about it, the more hopeful I became. She was startled, yes, which was my fault. But she also seemed pleasantly surprised on some level. And there was anxiety there of a sort I hadn’t seen in her before, laced with a hint of hopeful anticipation. She wasn’t just red in the face.

        She was blushing… Wasn’t she?

          Presumptive, I know, but it did wonders for my confidence. Maybe this was what she wanted. Maybe she was waiting for me to do this. Maybe she hadn’t given up on me, and was just waiting for me to come to her. By the way she looked in that moment, maybe… maybe she loved me, too. A smile crept over my face, and an electric feeling of gleeful optimism buzzed over my skin as I stared absently into the middle-distance. 

          “Sorry I’m late.”  Tifa suddenly spoke as she rounded the well’s pressure tank, spooking me from my daydream. I’d startled her earlier, so I guessed we were even.

          I had no words. I wasn’t quite ready. Maybe I should have been rehearsing in my mind rather than indulging in hopeful fantasies. She took a seat around the corner from me, facing away at a bit of a distance. I stared at my feet, swinging them over the edge as I searched for my voice. Slowly, I looked over and saw her staring skyward. Only just then did I notice how beautiful the stars were that night. Only then did I realize how often they must have looked like this during all those nights I’d spent here, too distracted by her music to pay them any mind.

          Even now, she was too much distraction for me to appreciate them fully, except in how they framed her in their heavenly light. A dazzling crown of stars suited her. She looked different than she had earlier. A new dress, mint green and darling with matching wedge sandals. Pressed and clean with a bit of a shimmer. She’d dressed up to meet me tonight. I didn’t know what to think of that, but it made me happy.

          “You said… you wanted to talk to me about something?” She asked, slightly impatient and audibly anxious. I’d been staring, speechlessly, for far too long.

          “Come this spring…” I said, turning away and pensively returning my gaze to my feet. “...I’m leaving this town for Midgar.”

          She hummed acknowledgment. I wasn’t the first to tell her this, after all. Probably not the most significant, either, I assumed.

        “...All the boys are leaving our town.” She sighed, accepting but forlorn.

        “But I’m different from all of them!” I defensively protested. I didn’t like being lumped in with them, certainly not when it came to something that disappointed or upset her. “I’m not just going to find a job.”

          I stood and faced her, hesitantly placing my hand on her shoulder.

          “I want to join SOLDIER.”

          I’d said it with as much conviction and confidence as I could muster. She looked up at me, giving me a warm smirk that told me she was happy for me, however unconsoled. She had no idea it was for her sake. The starlight danced in her upturned gaze, sparks of cosmic effervescence in pools of cranberry nectar.

          She was so beautiful…

          Flustered, I averted my gaze. 

          “I… I’m going to be the best there is, just like Sephiroth!” I boldly claimed.

          To my chagrin, her expression flattened. 

          “Sephiroth… The Great Sephiroth…” She sighed.

          That’s what everyone was calling him these days. Most spoke the name in reverence, a few sarcastically, for their hatred of Shinra. But, Tifa…  I couldn’t read her expression, couldn’t even read her tone. I never did hear her opinion on SOLDIER or Sephiroth, even after Shinra’s visit years ago. Even after they’d left such an impression, she’d never mentioned it. Even now, she didn’t seem swayed one way or the other. My confidence was beginning to waver.

          With a sudden need to compensate for my fractured composure, I climbed the pressure tank with two short bounds and stood atop it, staring at the stars with hands on hips. Perhaps trying to impress, definitely not aware of how corny the gesture was. Until she giggled. Still, I was happy to have at least made her smile.

          “Is it hard to join SOLDIER?” She asked, notably more chipper.

        That question never left my mind from the time I first saw them. It was definitely intimidating. How strong would one truly have to be to qualify? No matter how hard I pushed myself, they were inhuman. Anyone who saw them in action would question their own capacity. But I couldn’t allow that. I couldn’t afford to be uncertain. 

          In my greatest triumphs on the mountain, I often felt that I could conquer the world. After my nearest scrapes, in my eyes, survival was proof positive of my growth. Regardless, I had to walk away stronger, more ready than the day before. Because, in either case, the image in my head was always the same. The look in her eyes as we dangled over that long drop. The sound of her scream when the second rope snapped. Her motionless form in my arms when I was sure she had died.

        It wasn’t a matter of whether I could or couldn’t. I simply would. No matter what it took.

          “...I probably won’t be able to come back to this town for a while.” I lamented.

          Confusingly, she giggled again. Loudly this time. Had I said something funny?

          “Will you be in the newspapers if you do well?” She asked, the sound of a smile on her lips.

          I hadn’t considered it. That’s not what this was about to me, although I couldn’t blame her for thinking that it was. How many times had she seen me reading the papers by then? How many propaganda pieces? How many stories of the war in Wutai? And I’m certain she noticed the change in my behavior after they’d visited the village. Maybe she suspected my ambitions.

          “I’ll… try.” I said, clearly taken off guard. I didn’t know how to answer that. I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea, to think that this was some sort of power flex. Something I was just doing to impress her, as shamelessly as the other boys.

          “Hey,” She mused, “Why don’t we make a promise?”

          A promise… What was this? This sudden enthusiasm. I didn’t know what to expect tonight, though I had much to fear. But I certainly didn’t expect this. What was she thinking?

          “Umm… If you get really famous, and I’m ever in a bind… You come save me, alright?” She chirped.

          “W…what?” I faltered, stunned.

          “Whenever I’m in trouble, my hero will come and rescue me. I want to experience that at least once.” She spoke in a happy, almost caroling tone. I couldn’t tell if she was serious. 

          Did she know?

          Had she always known?

          Was she teasing me?

          “W-what…” I stammered.

          I was gobsmacked, literally knocked off my feet and sitting in shock. Confused, and honestly, a bit unnerved. I didn’t know what to think, or what to say. Why was she asking me this? Did she really mean it?

          “Come on--! Promise me--!” She playfully whined. I looked over the edge of the pressure tank to find her staring up at me again, upside down, leaned back and holding her knee in a cute, carefree pose. She flashed me a wide, genuine smile. The same way she smiled at me that first morning we ever played. And the stars shone through her eyes into my heart, compelling my answer.

          “Alright… Alright, I promise.” I said, afraid that she’d mistake my hesitance for unwillingness.

          She chuckled, pleased with herself and with my response. She stood and turned to me with a delightful, elegant little twirl. Still wearing that bewitching smile.

          “Go get ‘em, Cloud. I believe in you.” She chimed and laughed. 

          I smiled.

          We didn’t say much else that night, just watched the stars together for a while. Until it got a little too cold, and a little too late to be safe. When she wished me goodnight and stood to walk away, I stopped her, grabbing her by the wrist.

          “Tifa…” I beckoned.

          She looked over her shoulder at me, seeing my stone and sober expression. She seemed puzzled.

        “I will. I’ll… I’ll save you. I promise.” I told her firmly and seriously. 

          She paused. Silence, a brief moment that felt like it may never end, while I searched for any sign of her understanding. Any sign that this exchange was more than just a tease or a game, something that had as much personal meaning to her as it did to me. Praying that it wasn’t just encouragement solely for my sake. Desperate for some closure to the night, anything at all.

          Was I just another boy to her? Just another unwanted promise, such that she felt the need to make it for me before I could speak it myself? Did I mean anything to her that they didn’t, either more or less, or in any way unique? Was I special? Or just a piteous afterthought in need of patronizing?

          I hated this. I hated feeling so suspicious of something that should make me so happy.

          I squeezed her wrist lightly in the hopes of compelling her response.

          Slowly, her expression changed to one of sincerity, but of a kind just as puzzling. A slight smirk, a compassionate furrow and lift of her brow conveying concern only for my sake. And when she spoke, a tone to tell her awareness of my sincerity, but perhaps, to question my true intent or the actual depth of my resolve. All of this while sparing only two spoken words, two words I question to this day.

          “I know.”

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          I sat there nearly until sunrise. Alone, and gnawing on my own thoughts. Suppressing overinflated hopes, favoring negative assumptions of how she must have seen me. Fighting just as many doubts, wanting so badly to believe that she truly meant what she said. That she wanted me, of all people, to protect her as much as I did. Given a sign that I was special to her, certain that it was much too good to be true, yet hoping against hope that it was real.

          And yet, no light from her window. Not a word or a sound to let me know her hidden thoughts or feelings. Not until, at last, I stood to walk away…

Do-re-mi-ti-la… Do-re-mi-so-fa-do-re-do…

          A brief, light tickle of the keys. A new little melody, a giggle, and a heartening whisper…

          “Goodnight, Cloud…”

Chapter Text

VIII

Her Nocturne in Severance

          For the most part, I spent my last few months in Nibelheim at home. Summer faded into autumn quickly, and the weather didn’t remain hospitable for much longer. As tough as I considered myself by then, my mother wouldn’t approve of any trips up the mountain. Which was definitely for the best. I would be going out into the world alone, and these final days would be all I would have to keep me warm at night. I needed this time with mom, and whatever time I could secure with Tifa, much more than any further training.

          Besides, my mother was upset enough as it was, and she wouldn’t have it any other way. Inconsiderately, I’d put in my application without her knowledge. She was never a big supporter of the tradition, always felt that thirteen was far too young for a boy to leave home. And without my father, she was particularly distressed over the idea of an empty nest. So, when she’d found out I’d be leaving home to carry a rifle, she was more than a little upset.

          Still, there wasn’t much she could bring herself to say about it, let alone forbid it. Tradition was tradition. I would be leaving home a boy to become a man, and to stand in my way would be to undermine my growth. She couldn’t do that to me. Besides, as far as Shinra was concerned, the decision was mine to make at the age of thirteen, anyway. Given that Nibelheim was technically Shinra property, she didn’t want to cause any trouble that might cost us our home.

          Instead, out of some frustrated defiance without productive direction, she spent those days babying me. Talking to me a certain way, looking at me a certain way, diminishing and infantile. Hugging and holding me whenever she had the chance, and making chances where she couldn’t find them. Cooking only my favorite dishes. Doing things for me that I’d been able to do for myself for quite some time. Drawing my bath, cutting up my food before she brought it to the table. 

          She even went so far as to insist on bedtime stories, which was where I drew the line. I hadn’t protested any of this treatment. I knew she was doing it more for herself than for me, and I knew she needed it. I didn’t mind. I even wanted it, on some level. I loved her. I would miss her. And honestly, I wanted to feel this way one last time, too, before I took those first daunting steps into manhood. 

          It was just…well…

          I wanted to hear the piano.

          One night, as she sauntered up to my bedside with another book in hand and a loving smile blissfully emblazoned across her face, I’d had enough.

          “Mom… I think… Maybe no stories tonight, okay?” I mumbled. I wanted it to stop, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

          “Oh…" she sighed.

          She didn’t argue. She’d been expecting this. She just took a seat at the foot of my bed, staring emptily into space.

          “Mom…” I whispered, immediately feeling guilty.

          She buried her face in her hands, and for the first time since dad died, I saw her truly break.

          “Mom, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean…”

          “Why did you have to go and grow up on me?” mom whimpered, muffled by her hands. “Why can’t you just stay my little boy?”

          “Mom, I have to go… I gotta get stronger.” I whined.

          “Why?!” she shrilly cried, her face and hands slicked with tears. “Why like this? Why can't you go work on a farm, or something? Somewhere close by. I don’t want to lose you, too…”

          I stared at my feet in shame. I hated doing this to her, but I could see no other way. My heart ached, and I knew it would only hurt more when I could no longer see her face every day.

          Suddenly, I noticed a familiar shape laying on the floor. One I hadn’t seen in years, sitting amongst the pile of scrap cloth and spools of thread mom and Tifa had been using in their sessions. A little, yellow star. How it had survived the incident at the mountain, I didn’t know, but here it was. As if waiting for me. 

          I picked it up and ran my thumb over its fading surface. Pinched at the two, frayed strands of mom’s old thread still clinging to its edge, pondering its familiar smile and the simpler, happier days it represented. Mom watched me silently for a moment. Drying her tears, and very reluctantly, she spoke up where I couldn’t find the words.

          “Oh, I see…” she sighed. “Cloud, what happened to the two of you? She misses you, you know? There was never a single day she spent with me that she didn’t mention you. She thinks you don’t like her anymore.”

          I shrugged. I had no answer for that. Even I didn’t know. Whatever the reason, it was my fault.

          “I gotta be strong, mom. I have to keep her safe. I can’t let it happen again. Not ever. I promised her.” I asserted firmly, dodging her question. 

          She could see the steel and fire in my eyes, and she knew there would be no convincing me to reconsider. 

          There was no going back.

          Mom’s face went rigid. She was undone in a way that I hadn’t seen before. Prior to that moment, I had thought she knew everything. That she had all the answers. But in that face, I saw only turmoil. She knew exactly what I was talking about. She remembered that day as clearly as I did. And the week that followed, with Tifa’s life teetering on the brink. She loved Tifa very much, and yet…

          Resentment. 

          That was the look in her eyes. Irrational, unfair resentment for an innocent, faultless, twelve-year-old girl. Frustration and anger that her little boy’s dedication to this girl’s well-being would rob her of the only flesh and blood she had left in this world. Yet, she could say nothing. All this time, she’d insisted that I should follow my heart. That I should shine my brightest for her if I wanted to be as special to her as she was to me. 

          “If you care for her… if you love her, and I know you do… you need to be there.”

          Those had been her words to me. To rescind that moral imperative now would be hypocritical. Selfish. And most of all, it would be to break her son’s heart simply to spare her own. It would be to ask me to disregard Mrs. Lockhart’s dying wish, the oath she knew I’d taken, and on which I had staked my life.

          She couldn’t look me in the eye. I could see her lips tremble. She felt utterly defeated, wanted to walk away without speaking a word, but she knew I needed her. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, let my last memories of home be tainted this way. So, with a great force of will, she forced a smile to her face. And with a series of shallow, icy breaths, she said simply this…

          “You’re…a good friend, son. She’s lucky to have you.”

          For the first time that night, and perhaps the first time in my entire life, she’d spoken to me like I was a man. And then she stepped away, not to speak to me again for the rest of that night.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          Tifa played the piano more often those days. The weather was growing colder and less hospitable, and the sun set much earlier. This time of year, indoor activities were all we had. So, she took the opportunity to practice. 

          At least, that was the reasoning that made the most sense. Secretly, as always, I hoped it was for me. I hoped she would miss me as much as I would miss her. I hope she realized that I was still listening, and that she knew I’d take these songs with me in my heart.

          Tonight, the piano was hard to hear. It was a night of distraction. The first snowfall of the season, complete with a harsh, whistling wind. And, of course, there was the noise of unrelenting guilt.

          How could I do this to mom? How could I be so selfish? I couldn’t even tell myself that I hadn't considered it. I had, and that made it worse. The whole reason I applied secretly was because I knew she would protest and do all that she could to interfere.

          I knew her pain and her anxiety. I’d felt it as she cried into my shoulder the night I nearly died and came home a tattered mess. I’d felt it the entire week following, when she was too scared to let me leave our home and cried herself to sleep at night. I knew, and still… I betrayed her feelings.

          I felt like a monster.

          All I wanted was to keep Tifa safe. She was all I’d thought about, to the point where I neglected the woman who birthed me, raised me, and loved me unconditionally. The shame was crushingly heavy. I only managed to sleep that night when I’d relinquished my pride for her sake, doing something I never thought I’d do again just because I knew it would bring her comfort…

          In the wee hours, I crept into her room and, for the first time since I was a toddler, I crawled into bed with her. Much too big for either of us to be comfortable, but she didn’t care. And neither did I.

          “I love you, mom… I promise, I’ll write to you. I’ll… I’ll write every day.” I whispered. 

          A promise in no way secondary in my heart. A promise every bit as important as the one for which I’d risked my life and grown for over the past four years.

          She was silent for a moment, then wrapped her arms around me.

          “Thank you, honey…” she whispered. 

          We stayed that way until dawn. The indistinct notes of Tifa’s piano, as always, lulled me to sleep. But it was my mother’s undying love that allowed me to sleep peacefully, and without regret. To know that, no matter what happened, I would always have a home here. With her.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          Starting the next morning, the tone of our remaining days together made a sobering shift. No more coddling. Well, much less, anyway. No more babying. Consoled by my gesture, my mother told me she'd had time to think. She said that she came to realize something as she held me last night. She realized how much taller I was, how big and strong I'd grown. How the sound of my voice had changed. 

          I wasn’t the soft, warm little bundle I had been so recently to her. I was a young man now, one who was about to go out into the big, wide world all alone. To send a baby to fend for himself, let alone at war, would be to doom me. The best thing she could do to protect me now would be to prepare me for what I would experience.

          So, in place of the academics on which we’d focused up until then, she sought to instill new lessons in me. Some simple, if strong suggestions typical of any caring mother, and easily mistaken for nagging. To eat right, and not stay up too late. To not spend frivolously, and to save for my future. To think before I speak, and to treat others as I would be treated. Things I’d heard many times before, but the importance of which she insisted bore repeating.

          Then came the more specific lessons. Those filtered through her limited perspective and experience, but from a place of love and worry. Temptations of the city, and how people were different. How they didn’t care, and most often wouldn’t give me the time of day. How they often had ulterior motives, and how most couldn’t be trusted the way they could here in the country. 

          Warnings about booze, drugs, and gambling. Hustlers, scammers, muggers. People who would throw me under the bus for a quick buck, and the lack of people around me who would bother to help. Basically, stereotypes and suspicions from a country woman who had spent very little time in the city, experienced it through the lens of stories she’d heard, and decided she didn't like what she saw before she ever saw it. I took most of this on advisement, but with a grain of salt.

          The lessons to which I didn’t take kindly were those concerning girls. Love. A talk that made us both uncomfortable, and one I hardly felt necessary. She insisted that I think with my head as much as my heart, which was a fair point. I hadn’t been the best at that. But she also insisted that I choose a girl who deserved me, when she knew I’d already chosen. She stressed that, should I find that girl, I should treat her well and appreciate her, when she knew I would and already did.

          I did not like this topic. I resented it, in fact. The change I’d seen in her eyes concerning Tifa last night was manifesting in her words, and it both angered and worried me. She’d been so good to Tifa, especially since her mother died, and especially with her recent frustrations. She’d been like a mother to her, and I felt that bond was in danger now. Emilio and the others would be leaving before me, and her relationship with her father was still shaky at best.

          I prayed my mother wouldn’t be cold to Tifa in my absence. This wasn’t her fault. And without mom, she’d have no other shoulder to cry on.

          Apart from that sour note, I valued my time with my mother. I heeded her wisdom, and she would most definitely live on my shoulder with nearly every decision I made in Midgar. Which is exactly what she wanted, no doubt. And I took appreciative inventory of all the comforts of home I’d taken for granted, all the things I knew I’d miss. I loved our walls more with each passing day, savored every bite of my mother’s cooking, and reveled in her every doting smile.

          In the evenings, my mind went elsewhere. As always, in the dead of night, I thought of Tifa. Whether for the visions of her heart in her music, or the equally clear and terribly poignant silence. For several nights in a row, I heard nothing at all from the Lockhart home, let alone my beloved, private lullaby. And one blustery and unsettling night in particular, I realized why.

          Tomorrow would be Tifa’s first goodbye. In the evening, Emilio would be leaving for Midgar. She was sad to lose him, of course, but she also felt conflicted about it. Since his unwelcome promise to her, they’d grown a bit more distant. Thanks to me, that distance only increased as his day of departure grew near.

          She’d paid me several visits here and there since our night at the well. Chances to chat before it was my turn to leave, to clear the air and do away with any hard feelings that may have lingered between us. During those chats, though I withheld certain details and wasn’t quite as forthcoming as she’d hoped, she’d perceived a general picture of my true relationship with Emilio and the others. She knew they didn’t like me, and despite her refusal to participate, she was a regular audience to their ridicule. She’d witnessed their taunting and cruelty at times, and she knew there had been scuffles now and then. But it had been worse than she knew.

          She was angry, and she wasn’t going to let him leave without hearing it. A scolding that was long overdue.

          As nice as it was to have her securely on my side for once, as good as it felt to know she cared enough to intervene, the revelation would lead to an uncomfortable experience. One last exchange, though I’d hoped our little scrap at the river would be the last we’d speak. Apparently, Tifa insisted on a better form of closure.

          The weather was appropriately confused that day. The skies overhead were fitful and turbulent with an oncoming storm, but the horizons aglow with the coral and amber of an early sunset. The temperature was mild, almost warm, but shredded by a stiff and icy gale. Summer and winter clashing on autumn's doorstep. A fitting day for awkward hellos and goodbyes.

          I saw them from a near distance outside our window, where Emilio decided to say his parting words atop the well. Already, that bothered me. Petty though it may have been, after the night I’d made that promise to her, the well felt sacred to us. To me, anyway. But, I suppose those feelings of entitled exclusivity were ultimately what set Emilio and me at odds in the first place.

          I’d only spotted them mid-way through their conversation, and she didn’t look happy. She had turned her back on him in a huff, and he all but groveled and begged for her forgiveness. For what, I didn’t yet know, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the sight. That is, of course, until Tifa demandingly gestured in the direction of my house. 

          His head drooped and his shoulders slumped. I flinched, taken entirely off guard. I didn’t know what this was about, or what to expect. But I already didn’t like it.

          Begrudgingly, he climbed down from the well and approached my front door as she watched him with folded arms. Just as reluctantly, I did the same from my end. I really didn’t want to engage, but like him, I chose to do so for her sake. I sighed at the sound of his pitifully quiet knock. He obviously hoped I wouldn’t answer, assuming she’d let him off the hook. When I did, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

          “Uh…h-hey, Cloud…” he muttered with a nervous chuckle, avoiding eye contact. It seemed he was still shaken from our last encounter. I liked that.

          “What do you want, Emilio?” I sighed.

          “Y-yeah, um… listen… I, uh…” he stammered, looking back over his shoulder at Tifa. She frowned with disapproval at his hesitation, impatiently tapping her foot.

          “Well? Spit it out.” I jabbed. 

          “Yeah. Look, I… I guess I’ve been kinda mean to you, and stuff, and… I, like… bullied you…and…”

          “You’re a jerk, basically. Is that what you mean to say?” I chided.

          “...Yeah...” he forced through gritted teeth. “Anyway, I just wanted to say… I’m sorry, and…”

          “...And...?”

          “Uh… Well, you’re gonna be in Midgar soon, too, right? What say you and me bury the hatchet? Bygones, yeah? Maybe we can hang out sometime. I’ll get to know the place so I can show you around when you get there. Heh-heh…”

          He was turning up the charm. And the volume. Entirely disingenuous, putting on a show for Tifa. I rolled my eyes.

          “Whaddaya say? Pals?” he invited with his familiar, stupid grin and extended hand.

          I looked over his shoulder. Tifa seemed pleased. I sighed and shook my head. For her, I would humor him. But it wouldn't go any further than this. I couldn't help but think of all the times he’d pushed me and tripped me. All the times he’d called me names and laughed at me, and how he'd torn up my letter. But most of all, I thought of the lie that he’d spread, and how he’d made me an outcast. How he’d brought shame upon my house, my mother, and my late father. 

          With every fiber of my being, I wanted to knock his teeth out. Instead…

          I shook his hand. 

          Petulantly, and hard enough to leave him walking away nursing a handful of sore knuckles.

          “Have a nice life, Emilio.” I coldly repudiated.

          Without another word to waste on the likes of him, I walked back inside and closed the door in his face. Not quite a slam, but hard enough to punctuate my dismissal and drive home the point that he wasn’t welcome. I vibrated with fury I hadn’t been allowed to show, hoping she appreciated my restraint and cooperation. In the end, I would rather they part on good terms than give her cause for a broken heart.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          That night, Tifa’s play was a little softer. A little slower. Somber and disappointed. It spoke of tearful goodbyes and unwanted change.

          While they weren’t as close as they had been, for reasons I will never understand, Emilio was still a dear friend to her. And in the days to come, she would be losing two more. That may have been the most regrettable part of having my departure delayed. While I treasured the extra time I was allowed with her, it also meant that I would have to watch her encroaching loneliness. 

          I would have to see her heart break again. And as the last to go, I would have to be the one to break it.

          The realization made me dread leaving more than I already had. I’d hurt her many times. In effect, I’d already abandoned her when I refused her attempts to reconcile. And now that we’d finally reconnected, I’d be doing it again. Was I really doing the right thing? Was this really what was best for her? Maybe it would be enough for me to simply stay by her side. To be the one person who would never leave her, even if it meant breaking tradition.

          Yet, the memory of that day still haunted me. The relentless onslaught of traumatic images, of nearly losing her, of feeling her dying in my arms. That fall had nearly taken her from me, and it wasn’t the only threat the mountain had to offer. Some of those threats could descend the mountain and come to her. And knowing her, having seen her objection to her share of this repressive tradition of ours, she’d likely wish to leave the village herself someday. Into the great unknown, and maybe even to the same danger-riddled city about which my mother had been warning me.

          No. I needed to be stronger, to be better. I needed to know for sure that I would be enough to never be helpless again. I didn’t deserve her when I’d hid and left her to face her mother’s death on her own. I didn’t deserve her when I couldn’t stop her from risking her own life, or taking that fall. And if I couldn’t be certain that I wouldn’t fail her the same way in the future, I didn’t deserve her now.

          So, I would leave. I would make every moment apart from her count, and I would eagerly await the day I could return. But unlike the other boys. I wouldn’t leave her empty-handed. My words alone weren’t enough. I had to leave her something, some part of me that would remind her of who I was, what I had been to her, and why I wasn’t there. Something to let her know that I’d be thinking of her, and that I’d come back for her one day.

          Since I found her starfish patch, it had scarcely left my hand for more than a second. I’d considered returning it to her, knowing what a valuable artifact it was of her mother’s. But, I couldn’t part with it. I at least wanted to hold onto it while I was still in town. I liked to hold it when I listened to her music. The tactile sensation somehow made me feel a little closer to her. Maybe, I thought, I could memorize this feeling, too.

          Some time ago, I’d had the idea of making her a patch like this one. Now, the idea was more appealing than ever. My mother had made a few for me similar to this when I was growing up; it wasn’t an entirely unique practice as a mother in our town. I’d watched her make them before, and I felt confident that I could figure it out in time. Hopefully, without having to turn to mom for help.

          That would be my gift to her. A symbol of our friendship, and a reminder of my promise. I would leave her a hand-made patch. A little, smiling dolphin in the style of this starfish, hoping she would keep it as close to her as I wished I could be. Maybe, if I did a good enough job, it would stay with her always. Maybe it would convey the love I still couldn’t bring myself to confess.

          With little else to do in the winter months, that would be my focus. I started early, as I knew there would be a learning curve. I was right, and I handled it in the worst way possible. Truthfully, I wanted the project to remain a secret, if at all possible. I didn’t like approaching the topic of Tifa with my mother anymore, still fearing her evident resentment. And that topic would be unavoidable if I were to seek her help.

          To that end, I'd made her personal supplies off limits. I chose not to use her bolts of fabric or her thread, and that was a critical mistake. When my throw-away efforts exhausted any usable pieces in the scrap pile, I had the genius idea… of sacrificing my own clothing. Old clothing that hadn't fit me in years, mind you. Things that I felt she wouldn't miss. I was wrong, especially considering my wasteful and less than discreet disposing of the remains. Eventually, after she noticed my closet space gaining a bit of breathing room, she discovered the cache of tattered shirts and pants beneath my bed. 

          She was furious. 

          It hadn't occurred to me that these items of clothing, completely meaningless to me, would be valuable treasures to her in my absence. Fond memories of my younger years, toddling at her heels and staining them with misplaced bites of food and finger paints. Precious and irreplaceable. 

          She'd never yelled at me quite like that before, and I knew I deserved it. Through my own inconsiderate actions, and for the second time in less than a month, I'd made her cry. From then on, I relied on her guidance. I needed to be transparent and open with her. As spring approached, this worry of mine wasn't something I could afford to leave unaddressed any longer. Besides, it was clear that this would require technique I didn't yet possess. 

          I’d made a drawing that would serve as the design. I wasn’t an artist, but it did the job. Something simple I could conceivably finish, and something that would have been relatively at home with the aesthetic sentiment in most of her mother’s designs. With a cute smile, just like her starfish. Just like her. 

          I received mom’s help, step by step, but I wouldn’t let her do anything for me. I wanted every stitch to be made by my own hand. Instead, she worked on her own beside me so I could follow along. And as we sat there one night, busying ourselves with the sort of craft time she’d dearly missed with me, I gathered the courage to ask.

          “Mom… Do you think… do you think Tifa will still come over when I’m gone?” I quavered.

          Discouragingly, she visibly prickled a bit.

          “I dunno, sweetie. I mean, she’s your friend. What would she do here without you?” she sighed.

          “Well… She likes sewing with you, doesn’t she? And talking, and stuff? I just thought…”

          “Honey…” she interrupted, exasperated.

        “Mom, please don’t hate her. Okay? She’s not making me do this, I swear.”

          “Cloud… I don’t hate her. I just… I don’t like how fast you’re growing up. I don’t want this to happen, and I’m having a hard time accepting it. I’m not…”

          She placed her stitchwork in her lap, lying her head back against the chair’s headrest and closing her eyes. Pausing to focus and fight the tears. I’d seen her do this when talking about dad over the years, when it was toughest to process the fact that he was really gone. I never thought I’d see her make this face for me.

          “...I’m not ready to hand you over to another woman.” she sighed.

          “Mom, she’s still a kid, though…” I whined.

          “No, honey… she’s not. Not anymore. When you leave this town, when you take those first steps outside, you’ll be a man. And she… she’s a woman now. Young, afraid, and probably not ready. No more ready than you, or any of us when our time comes. But she is. 

          “This is the other half of the tradition, son. She’s filling her mother’s shoes now. Growing and fending for herself, and one day… she’ll take care of… the man she loves. One day.”

          She lovingly placed her hand over mine, but I wasn't receptive. She was right, but I wasn’t swayed. That wasn’t the point. Maybe Tifa was a woman. Even so, she was a woman my mother had loved as her own and helped to raise. Far beyond what was her responsibility or requested of her. Tifa’s heart had already been broken, and was about to be broken again. I couldn’t let mom do this to her. It wasn’t fair.

          “Mom… I don’t know what my future with Tifa will be, or if we’ll even have one. I don’t know if she loves me. But I know she loves you. She loves you, mom. The way I love you. When I’m gone and can’t care for her, I’m counting on you to remember that. She needs you.  Please, be there for her. If not for her, then for me.”

          A look of shame washed over her face. Yet, still, she went silent. Reluctantly, she nodded. For the moment, that was the best I was going to get. And I didn’t want to turn it into a fight. Not so soon before I left. I wanted these last memories to be as pleasant as possible. My plea and my trust would be enough. They would have to be.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          The topic of Tifa didn’t come up again between mom and me. Not for lack of trying, but because mom would consistently change the subject whenever she sensed the conversation going in that direction. From then on, when she saw that I’d gotten the hang of patch-making, she even stopped helping me. She’d made the excuse that it was for the sake of my own growth, but I knew it was just one more avenue toward that discussion that she was trying to close.

          I hoped she saw how sad it made me. I hoped she knew how upset I'd be if Tifa found herself mistreated here. More so, I hoped she could see it in Tifa. She could sense it, too. The way mom spoke to her had changed. Grown shorter and stiffer, somewhat avoidant. Not angry or curt, but rushed. Disengaged and less familiar.

          Tifa’s visits became less frequent, and far more brief. Toward the end of my time in Nibelheim, she didn’t so much as step past our doorway anymore. She’d just stop by to say hello, to me more than to mom. Sometimes to deliver cookies, or muffins, or fresh bread. She’d taken more of a shining to baking in the colder months, for whatever reason. And, as always, it was her pleasure to share her happiness with others.

          We were probably just her first stop, but that hopeful part of me liked to believe that she always wanted me to have the first pick of the batch.

          One morning, she showed up in an apparently deliberate attempt to reclaim my mother’s affections. She came bearing a basket of what she called “sunshine muffins”. Light, fluffy, and bright. Almost angel food white, with blueberries and a lemon-orange zest, topped with a marmalade drizzle in the shape of childish doodles of the sun. 

          “...’cuz they got blue sky, and fluffy clouds, and they’re sunny sweet!” I heard Tifa cheerfully explain as I neared the open door.

          She was wearing the happiest smile I’d seen on her face all season, tailor-made for mom, as she proudly handed over the entire basket. Pleading for her praise, desperate for a mother’s love that only my mother could give her now. 

          “My, how sweet! That’s very kind of you, honey. Thank you. I’m sure they’re delicious. Tell your father hello for me, okay?” mom said, with false cheer and a smile that belied the awkwardness.

          No invitation to come inside, as usual. In days past, for something like this, my mother would have been elated. She would have been proud of Tifa, showered her in adoring recognition. She probably would have asked her for the recipe, and she most certainly would have invited Tifa inside to share in the meal. But ever since I opened my mouth about the promise I’d made, those days were gone.

          I was angry. Distraught.

          “You’re…you’re welcome…” Tifa squeaked. 

          Her expression melted to one with which I was shamefully familiar, and hoped I’d never see again. A naive pain without resentment, but wanting for understanding where none was forthcoming. Looking up at mom from lowered eyes, as if she felt small. Slouched and folding inward from unspoken hurt. A look of disappointment and rejection.

          She’d looked at me the same way many times after those first six months of our friendship, as I turned cold and distant. When she couldn’t understand my need for dissociation, when she knew only love and caring for her friends, when she couldn’t imagine what had upset me. She always internalized it and blamed herself, though it had been me who unfairly hurt her.

          It was the first time I ever saw it from this angle, from the outside in. I was ashamed of my all-too-recent self. And I was ashamed of my mother.

          As mom moved to close the door, I bolted past her and caught it, snatching one of Tifa’s muffins from its basket in passing. 

          “H-Hey, Tifa!” I chimed, trying to mask the fact that I’d only been awake for a matter of minutes. “So, uh… you made these? They smell great!”

        “Uh, y-yeah… I… tried my best…” she was stunned, but clearly still sad.

          I took a bite. They tasted even better than they smelled, like the warmth and mirth of summer. An edible sunrise. Were it not for Tifa’s broken heart, I couldn’t have asked for a better way to start my day. 

          “Wow, Tifa… That’s really tasty!” I raved through a mouthful and a hail of crumbs. “I’m definitely gonna miss these. I bet I’ll never taste anything this good in Midgar.”

        At last, she smiled, though wincing at my poor manners.

          “I’m glad you like them. Maybe… maybe you can take one or two with you when you go? For the road…” She sighed, a cool breath of looming melancholy chilling the air between us.

        I could. They probably wouldn’t even be stale, I realized. Time was almost up, and this would be one of the last few times I’d see her face. I tried my best to memorize it. Her beautiful eyes, despite their sorrow. The kindness in her smile, and the dreadful tremor in her voice. The sunny sweet flavor on my tongue, the taste of her love and care. All facets that may make me miss home and worry, that I would treasure for every moment apart from her.

        “Oh… my star…” she mused.

          “Huh?”

        It took me a moment to realize. I slept with it in my hand every night now. I’d forgotten I was holding it.

        “O-oh… yeah…” I sighed. “I found it in… It was with your sewing stuff. I… well, here…” I slowly presented it to her, already missing its feel between my fingers.

        She began to reach for it, but paused when she saw my face. I don’t know what piteous expression I wore, but it clearly told her how much it meant to me. She smiled warmly, slowly closing her fingers around mine and sealing the starfish in the clasp of my palm, pressing it to my chest.

        “You keep it…” she sweetly whispered. “Carry it with you and think of me, okay?”

          There was so much I wanted to say to her. To tell her how much I already thought of her. To tell her she was all I’d thought about for years, and how I would only ever think of her until the day we would meet again. To tell her the promise she’d asked of me had been my promise since the day I’d nearly lost her to the fall, that all that I was doing, I was doing for her. To tell her she was precious to me.

          To tell her that I loved her.

          But I could only smile, hoping she knew what I never had the strength or courage to say.

          “Thank you… I will, I promise. And… I’ll bring it back to you, one day.” I sincerely and heartsickly swore.

          She hugged me. “And I’ll have more muffins for you before you leave. So, eat all you want.” She laughed.

          As she walked away, I grabbed her wrist and stopped her. Desperate to say something more, anything, before I even had the words.

          “Hey, I… um… Will you… play for me tonight? I haven’t been sleeping well, and…” I stammered.

          She grinned and chuckled.

        “Any requests?”

        “Anything. Everything. I like everything you play, but… I really like the song you wrote. The first one. You know, the one for your mom…”

        Her smile faded, ever so slightly. It was painful to remember, though she played it often. I felt guilty for asking, but I likely wouldn’t get another chance. If only just one last time, I longed to hear it. And to know she was playing it for me.

        She nodded, willfully renewing her smile for my sake.

        “You got it.” she chirped with a cheerful little giggle.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          That night, she played endlessly. From the early evening until late at night, well past her bedtime or mine. Every song I’d ever heard her play, old or new, learned or original. Hers, her mother’s, and those I hardly knew. A few she once wrote for me. A few she wrote knowing I’d be listening, with or without me in mind. And several times, my requested melody. Her love, her mourning, her ode to the woman who made her who she was. Though still nameless, with more passion and beauty than ever before.

          Sounds of heart, of sentiment, of seasons. The warmth and carefree innocence of summers past. The beautiful, yet somber sleep of autumn. The crystalline winter outside my window, freezing and preserving my every pleasant or painful memory of home, but for the ever-growing, ever-breathing, and ever-living spirit of her music. And the colors of my fourteenth spring, of change whether welcomed or feared, that would take her away from me…

          I’d told her I needed it to help me sleep. But I had no intention of sleeping that night. By candlelight, and with needle and thread in hand, I listened to every note. Sharpening and refining every nuance of her play deep within my heart and mind, knowing that I would only hear it inside from then on. And with each note, a new stitch in my blue and smiling goodbye. Each with matching precision and care, perfecting my last and greatest attempt. Hoping she would keep it and think of me, too.

          If I did prick my finger, her music kept me from ever feeling it.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          The morning of Shinra’s arrival came much too soon, and then sooner still. I was already given terrible pause by all I’d been made to realize and consider in the months since my application, feeling my feet grow colder with every hour nearer to dawn. But even in this, they could not permit me the goodbye I had expected. In the end, it was a good thing that I’d made that connection with Tifa in the couple of days before the date of my departure.

          There would be no fresh sunshine muffins for me that morning.

          At around 2AM, well before sunrise, mom and I were startled awake by a not-so-gentle rapping at our front door. Mom answered to find a neatly pressed and professional, albeit nondescript, military official with the Shinra logo emblazoned across his chest. He bore a clipboard in hand, flanked by two armed guards as he clerically, and rudely, favored thumbing through his documents over eye contact.

        “Is this the home of one Cloud Strife?” He sternly asked, inconsiderate of the hour and unapologetic for the intrusion.

          “Y-yes…” Mom meekly confessed.

          He invited himself in, stepping past my mother with an entitled authority she clearly resented, but wouldn’t dare contest. In effect, our home was Shinra’s home, as we were guests on their land. It was a violating experience, and I couldn’t help but feel vulnerable as he stood before me. The world of adulthood had come to claim me, and my mother could not shield me.

          “Cloud Strife?” He demanded.

        “Y-yes, sir…” I replied in a cracking whine, visibly frightened.

        “I represent Shinra Military Acquisitions. Effective immediately, you are hereby in the employ of the Shinra Electric Power Company.” He declared, handing me a sealed envelope.

        Hesitantly, I accepted. He stared at me expectantly, silently, and never breaking eye contact. Surmising what he wanted, I opened the envelope. A check, for more gil than I’d ever seen in my young life. Paid to the order of Claudia Strife, FSA of Pvt. Cloud Strife, Third Class, Shinra Security Forces.

          “Per the agreed upon terms of your recruitment, your monthly compensation shall be delivered partially in family annuity to this address, beginning with this portion of your signing bonus. You will find details on claiming the rest, along with a comprehensive payment schedule and inventory of all due financial and living accommodations, with Shinra Accounting upon arrival at Midgar headquarters. This, of course, following orientation, outfitting, and final onboarding. Understood?”

        He spoke so coldly and matter-of-factly, assaulting me with these big, complicated words I had no hope of understanding. Never once did he think to clarify or slow his speech, completely dismissive of the fact that he was speaking to a thirteen-year-old boy of minimal education. As he spoke, all of my confidence and strength bled from me. My palms and the soles of my feet felt like ice.

          I couldn’t move.

          I was trembling.

          “M…mom…” I whimpered, looking at her pleadingly. I’d never felt so small, but she seemed just as frightened as I was. She couldn’t find her voice.

        “Understood?” The man snapped. I flinched.

        “Y-y-yes sir!” I yelped.

        “Excellent. You have twenty minutes to gather your belongings and sort your affairs. You are to rendezvous with personnel and material handling at the south gate at zero two thirty hours, where you will be escorted to the main convoy 1.2 klicks south-by-southeast of the Nibelheim border. Keep your luggage to the required minimum outlined in our preceding correspondence, and do keep your farewells to a minimum. We are on a tight schedule with many more stops to make between here and the Midgar training facility. Any tardiness will go on record, and will be subject to strict remediation. Dismissed.”

        With that, he turned on his heels and exited our home with his guards in tow. I stood there in shock, short of breath, while my mother fell to her knees and held me close. Neither of us expected this transition to be so sudden or traumatic. With all of my being, I wanted to cry. But I couldn’t allow myself to. I would leave my mother strong, with my head held high. I would give her no cause to worry or suffer any more than she already was.

        “It’ll be okay, mom…” I reassured her, hugging her back with all the sturdiness and strength I could muster.

        “Take care, son… my baby boy… Please, be safe, okay?” She pleaded. I never thought a hug could feel so long. Or so short.

        Wearing my new travel clothes, carrying the duffel bag to which I had sown Tifa’s precious starfish patch, I stepped out into the pitch-black, barely spring morning. The air was sharp and crisp, the dew still frosted upon the first grass and tender buds of the season, and my steps crunched gravel against the still-slumbering silence. My last vision of home stood before me, all lonely frost and stone.

        Tifa’s home sat just as quiet and still. I had intended to say goodbye, but the guards were waiting for me. The one consideration they’d given to my age was in their lack of trust for my sense of urgency or punctuality.

          “This way, Strife.” One of them commanded.

        “Wait, I… I have to say goodbye to someone.” I protested.

        “No time, boy. We have to get moving. Hey!” He shouted after me as I ignored his reply.

        I stood before her door and prepared to knock, but I could already feel the guard close on my heels. He wouldn’t permit it, and I wouldn’t have the time to wait for her. Remorsefully, I stared at the completed dolphin patch in my hand. I’d meant to hand it to her personally, to surprise her and ask her to think of me, too. The best I could do was to leave it on her front porch before he grabbed me by the wrist and pulled me away, hoping she would see it and know it was from me.

Chapter Text

IX

Her Sonata in Seclusion

          That morning was a nightmare. I had almost no sleep in my system, no sooner roused from a dream I struggled to remember than torn from my mother's arms and whisked away from everything I’d ever known. Nobody ever said it was going to be a luxurious ride, but I never thought they’d pack us shoulder-to-shoulder in the back of a rattling, tarp-covered cargo truck. Nor did I expect to be one of so few my age, and a comparatively small one at that, lumped in with boys and men mostly four-to-five years my senior. I was just fortunate enough to be one of the last to board my transport, and therefore, one of the few with fresh air and a view.

          Within the first few hours, as the sun finally crested the horizon, I became aware of just how little of the world I’d actually seen in my life. Outside the village, on a select few occasions before I’d lost my father, we’d visited several homesteads and patches of farmland that I could still remember. Loose acquaintances or friends of my parents, people my mother undoubtedly hoped would accept me as a farmhand this year. Decent country folk to whom she would have been comfortable entrusting my care.

          We passed the last of those familiar places well before daylight. My first day as a man dawned in the untamed wilds, on beaten paths rather than planned roads. Rolling, yellow-green hills dotted by the occasional tree. Where the river that had nearly swallowed me found its delta and emptied into the western sea, and where the red, rocky plateaus of Cosmo Canyon stood majestic beneath the southeastern sky. A sky wider and bluer than I’d ever known.

          It would have been beautiful, had my departure not been so jarring and heart-rending. Apart from that, I was famished. I hadn’t eaten a single bite all morning, and as quiet as everyone else was around me, I assumed I wasn’t the only one. We’d likely all received the same treatment, and my stomach wasn’t the only one growling. 

          Fortunately, I’d brought the last two of Tifa’s first batch of sunshine muffins in my bag. A little staler than I’d assumed, but still very edible. Yet, as I fished one out and unwrapped it from its parchment paper, I just couldn’t take that first bite. I just sat there, staring at it and basking in its tangy, sunny-sweet aroma. Examining every little ridge and nodule of its glistening surface.

          “Hey… you gonna eat that?”

          The last hand to touch this muffin was Tifa’s. She’d made this delectable little nimbus in my hands. Baked it with love for my mother and me. To win my mother’s praise, but certainly with the intent to make my morning a little brighter, as well. 

          “Hey…”

          I was in a rush, so I hadn’t noticed when I grabbed it. But this one was different. Where the others were all topped with marmalade suns, this one had a smiley face. Two dabs for eyes, a dab for a nose, and a wide-arching grin. All enclosed in a neat little circle, marked only by a trailing curl where the piping bag’s tip reached the end of its path.

          “Hey! Buddy!”

          I brushed my thumb gingerly below its candied lines, a fine layer of golden crust flaking away beneath my touch.

          “Aw, you’re wasting crumbs! That’s cruel!”

          It was the same smiley face I’d seen when she played for me that night. After the first time she played her mother’s song, I decided to leave her one last sign. Apart from our main windows facing the well, there were two smaller panes between our houses. One near my bed, through which I most often listened. On hers, a small port window at the end of the hallway just outside her bedroom door.

          “PRETTY SONG”

          This time in the frost and condensation on the glass, having forgotten to reverse the ‘S’. When I wiped the ‘S’ away with the intent to correct it in the fog of my own breath, through the space I’d cleared, I could see that she’d already written a reply on her own window.

          “THANKS”

          Complete with the same smiley face. She’d forgotten to reverse the ‘N’.

          “Alright, well, if you’re not gonna have it…” the boy across from me mooted, reaching for the muffin. I kicked him in the chest and sent him slamming back into his seat, inches before his dirty fingers made contact.

          “Back off!” I shouted, baring my teeth at him.

          “C’mon, man! I’m starvin’ over here! Have a heart! Can’t we at least go halvsies?” he pleaded.

          There were about fifteen others with me on that truck, all of them silent for the most part. Whether tired, frightened, or both. This guy was the only exception. He might’ve been about a year older than me, almost definitely one of the youngest. Given that he was seated directly across from me, I imagined he was probably picked up not long before me. His experience was probably similar to mine, and yet, he insisted on standing out.

          Loud. Energetic. The kind of guy who couldn’t sit still, and wasn’t comfortable unless everyone within earshot either loved or hated him. He’d tried to speak to several of us since I joined, refusing to take the hint when he received little more than silence and requests to shut his mouth. He reminded me very much of Emilio, and though I didn’t know him, I didn’t like him.

          Yet, my mother’s lessons came to mind. Not the cautionary tales of the past few months, but what she’d been trying to instill in me since I was little. Before Tifa gave me the inclination to know anyone or pursue anything, I was a deliberate shadow. Mom told me that I needed to give people a chance, that no man is an island, and that life would only be harder if I couldn’t rely on others. Directly contradicting her insistence that nobody in the city was to be trusted, but we weren’t in the city yet, and he wasn’t a city boy by any stretch of the imagination.

          Maybe I was judging him unfairly. Maybe he was as scared and sad as I was, and this was just his way of dealing with it. Survival was going to mean building bridges, and I’d might as well start with him. If there was ever a time when I was going to need a friend, it was now.

          I looked up to find him begging, with clasped hands and making dramatic noises suggesting he may crumble to ash and blow away if he didn’t eat a muffin within the next ten seconds. Probably trying to elicit a laugh, but I wasn’t in a laughing mood. Sighing, I reached into my bag for the second parchment-wrapped bundle and tossed it at him unceremoniously.

          “There. Put that in your loud mouth.” I dismissed, immediately turning my attention back to Tifa’s smiley face.

          “Hey, thanks, Muffin Man!” he enthusiastically shouted. Immediately, he replaced the annoying sound of his voice with cacophonous unwrapping and audible munching.

          He couldn’t even eat quietly. Or without talking.

          “Wow, this is pretty great! Your mom make these?” he wetly asked through a spray of crumbs.

          I frowned, doing my best to ignore him.

          “Ohhh…. Girl, huh?” he teased, chuckling through another mouthful. I wanted to give him my fist to snack on next.

          “Yes. A girl.” I replied through my teeth.

          “Alright, I get’cha. Not another word.” At least he had the sense not to pry. He stood, brushed the crumbs from his pants, dusted his palms, and presented his hand. “Thanks for the snack, Muffin Man. Name’s Luke. Luke Steiner.”

          Give people a chance, Cloud. If you have to have another Emilio on your hands, I thought, better for it to be a friendly one. Maybe things could have been better between Emilio and me if I’d only met him half-way. With another sigh, knowing I was about to open the gates of endless rambling, I reached up and shook his hand.

          “Heya. You’re welcome. Stop calling me Muffin Man.” I huffed in irritation. He laughed.

          “Well, wha’do I call ya, then?”

          “My name. Cloud. Cloud Strife.” I smirked despite myself. I had to admit, his carefree attitude during this stressful situation, if bothersome, was refreshing on some level.

          As I feared, he took my acknowledgment as an invitation to launch into a monologue about his life. The farm he was from. ‘Independent, and beholden to no township proper, mind you’, he’d proudly declared. His ma’ and pa’, and their worry about how the harvest had been bad these past few seasons. Figured he’d get the best payin’ job a fourteen-year-old country boy could get, iffin’ he could, and send the lion’s share back to the farm before they had to sell the chocobos and cattle. He aimed to inherit that land someday and pass it on to his boy, like his granddaddy done, and his before him.

          It went on and on until we arrived at our first rest stop that evening. Though, I can’t say I minded terribly. Honestly, it was comforting. Here was a real rural kid from a salt of the earth family, sown generations deep in the middle of nowhere. While I was born and raised out here just like him, we were still worlds apart. I was part of a tight-knit community, far from isolated. Our town was a corporate estate that pulled in people from around the continent, of all backgrounds and creeds, and more than a few ways of thinking despite the traditions that bound us and the generations that carved them in stone. Suddenly, I didn’t feel like I would be quite as out of place as I’d feared.

          His ceaseless rambling only came to an end, and only temporarily, when he’d started hounding me again about the girl who made the muffins. Very insistent, ribbing me and teasing me, as was typical for boys our age. Still, I firmly, and a bit threateningly, insisted that the topic was off limits. Though, I tried not to hate him for it. He had no way of knowing the pain Tifa and I had been through, nor that my relationship with her wasn’t a simple crush.

          He may have been a friend one day. Or, at least a companion with an upbringing somewhat in common. Someone in whom I could confide, and I would almost certainly need someone like that eventually. But, for now, I simply wasn’t comfortable talking about it.

          As the night settled in, it became a risky proposition to continue any further. Navigation would be difficult, and monsters were a risk. Besides, everyone needed their rest. So, after a certain hour just before sundown, we set up a secure perimeter and camp. A chow line, a few bonfires to socialize and keep warm, and a collection of pup tents where we would sleep in pairs. Of course, being that I was the only one to engage with him, Luke insisted on sticking with me wherever I went.

          Over a simple meal of bland stew and bread, he regaled me with yet more tales of farm life. I, as before, remained silent until he asked a question or otherwise wasn’t going to move on without some sort of response. A few more times, he’d tried his luck at getting at least a name for my special someone back home. Also as before, I consistently refused, and got progressively angrier the more he asked. 

          “Well, shit…” he ceded, quite comfortable swearing in the absence of any adults who cared. “Well, maybe you’ll tell me one day, yeah? Still, it’s gotta be nice. Having someone who loves ya’ like that waiting back home for ya’. Someone to try hard and survive for, right? That’ll get you through the worst of times, I reckon. By god, I sure do wish I had me a girl who could bake like yours…”

          Did she love me? The way I loved her? Though I hoped, I still didn’t know. But she did care, that much was certain. She did want to see me return home safe and sound. And I’d made that promise to her, hadn’t I? A promise I very much intended to keep. If she truly meant what she’d asked of me, she’d be waiting. 

          …I hoped. I hoped I meant that much to her.

          That night, as I lay against the hard ground, I already sorely missed the sound of the piano. Yet, I would have preferred silence to Luke snoring like a chainsaw less than two feet from me. So, instead, I hummed quietly to myself. Hummed her every melody while I futilely cupped my hands over my ears, staring at her starfish patch on my duffel bag until sleep finally claimed me.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          The next couple of weeks followed that same routine. As the official who retrieved me at home had said, there were many more stops to make. Other rural villages, and many more farms, especially those around Shinra assets. Wherever Shinra had a foothold, it seemed, the land was slowly drying up and becoming useless. Of course, now we know why. Regardless, people were getting desperate, and the only reliable source of income anymore was in service to Shinra in one capacity or another. 

          For most this far from modern civilization, education was limited. So, that usually meant manual labor or the lowest dregs of military service. And for those residing on properties either not owned by Shinra, or of little to no asset or strategic value to the company, that also meant leaving home to find work where they would be useful. Out here, Shinra was not hurting for volunteers. The cargo truck providing me transport was only one of dozens in the convoy, and we were expected to fill every last one to capacity before we reached our destination.

          With more recruits came more dreamers like myself, aspirers to SOLDIER power and glory. Not many, and fewer still my age, but enough to make me feel not so alone. To feel not so foolish, like my ambitions were realistic and attainable. Initially, at least…

          For the great number of recruits who joined the convoy after me, I was still evidently the youngest. Among all those I met personally, I was definitely the smallest, despite all the training I’d done over the past few years. And, while there may have been a few of noble intent, those would-be SOLDIER candidates were mostly of a particular kind. The kind that rallied and bonded over isolating, hazing, and otherwise ridiculing the weak.

          It began one night when the convoy met with another transport of Shinra officials at one of our last stops. A small, off-the-map town just a few miles south of the desert we'd soon be crossing, whose name I honestly can’t recall. Hardly a town at all, really, so much as a collection of small businesses and their proprietors who lived on the money of passers-through. Most of them inns which, apart from the last couple of recruits to join the ranks, were the main reason for our stop.

          Shinra had graciously decided to put us up for the night before we continued our journey, which would take us to the sea and bound for the port of Junon. A much-needed night of real sleep in real beds. We’d all been roughing it for weeks, and they told us it was out of appreciation for our commitment. In reality, their true motives were a bit more calculated. It was ultimately to boost morale and faith in the company, knowing it would make us more receptive to their pitch.

          At each inn’s dining hall, where we filled our bellies with our first proper meal since we joined, the officials made their rounds. Dark suits and even darker demeanors from Shinra’s Secret Service division. Informally, they were called the Turks, and their reputation preceded them. These were the custodians of Shinra’s dirtier business, cloak-and-dagger tasks of intimidation and espionage. But they had another function, for which they approached us that evening.

          “As you all know, our land war with Wutai has come to an end.” their senior officer informed. A crew-cut man of slight stature, but commanding presence.

          I hadn’t known that, actually. Nor, I imagined, had most of the others in attendance. News traveled slowly in the sticks, and that particular factoid hadn’t reached Nibelheim’s newsstands before I departed. Frankly, it was disheartening. I’d figured that if I could prove myself in the war, I would have no problem showing that strength and confidence back home. Tifa’s wishes pending, for my own part, it would be proof enough to me that I could protect her. 

          And yet…

          “We’ve reached an understanding with Godo Kisaragi.” he continued. “The Wutai army has yielded to our overwhelming show of force in this most recent campaign, and has surrendered in favor of peaceful negotiations. While we hope to foster an arrangement favorable to both interests, we anticipate the violent response of certain dissidents within the Wutai community.

          “We intend to maintain a certain degree of military readiness. Therefore, our SOLDIER division is still well-funded and in need of viable candidates. Who among you hold ambitions to fill this role?”

          Of course, I eagerly raised my hand without hesitation. For a moment, mine was the only hand in the air, while much of the room buzzed with snickering and snide remarks. It didn’t dissuade me. I’d expected to be underestimated. I was used to it, after all, and I wasn’t about to be mocked or shamed into second guessing myself. This was too important to me. She was too important.

          “Yes, you, in the back. Stand up, if you will.” he requested. I complied. “What is your name, son?” he asked.

          “Um… Cloud… Cloud Strife, sir.” I meekly replied, immediately regretting the show of weakness.

          “Cloud Strife… Well, Strife, I like your initiative. Fortune favors the bold, as they say. Surely, this brave young man cannot be the only among you willing to accept this challenge?” he provoked at my expense.

          At that vexing insinuation, nearly every hand in the room quickly shot skyward. Some might have taken this as respect, to presume to have led by example. I was not so naive. It was out of shame, and I fully expected to pay for my audacity very soon.

          “Well, now. That’s a much more encouraging response.” he incredulously jeered. “For those of you who are actually serious, you will find our recruitment registrar stationed just outside. I would ask that you provide your name and issued credentials, and expect further communication upon your arrival in Midgar. This is a serious undertaking, and I expect all of you to treat it as such. You would do well not to waste our time, or yours. Good evening, gentlemen.”

          With that, he and his security detail took their leave, and I was left to deal with the consequences of my actions.

          Runt. 

          Half-pint. 

          Weakling.

          These, among others, were the insults I received as many of the rest shoved their way past me on the way to sign up. Fewer than had pledged, I noticed, but enough to effectively trample and belittle me. I had no tears for those jerks, no more than Emilio and the rest back in Nibelheim. I wasn’t here to earn their respect.

          “Aw, don’t worry about those dicks…” a familiar voice consoled, reaching his hand out to me.

          Clearing the dust from my eyes, I looked up. There stood Luke, friendly as always. Suddenly, I was a bit more grateful that he’d grown so attached to me. I took his hand, and he pulled me to my feet.

          “You got guts, Muffin Man. Didn’t think ya’ had it in ya’. SOLDIER? Hell, you’re braver than me by a mile. Far cry braver than any of those shitheads, too, I bet.”

          “I thought I told you to stop calling me that.” I sighed, brushing myself off.

          “Yeah, that name don’t suit you no more, I reckon! Stud Muffin, more like, yeah?” he laughed, slugging me on the arm.

          I chuckled despite myself. 

          “Whatever, man…” I sighed.

          I put on my best brave face for the rest of the walk toward the registrar, despite being pushed to my absolute limit. How could I not, after all he’d said? But, once the lights went out, and I was left alone with my thoughts, I’m ashamed to say… I cracked. We were placed with roommates, and even then, there wasn’t room for all of us. Many were sent back to the trucks and tents, so I was grateful to have secured a bed. Still, lying there in the dark and quiet, I wished I could have been alone.

          At least I had the good fortune to not be paired with Luke. He never would have shut his mouth, much less let me sleep. And if there was anyone I didn’t want to see me lose composure, it was him. Maybe he would’ve been supportive, maybe not. Either way, I doubt he would have been quiet or tactful about it.

          So, I lay still and silent while the tears streamed from my eyes and dampened my pillow, rocked and hammered by the pulses of sobs I refused to vocalize. I wanted something soft in my life. Something warm and safe. I wanted my mom. I wanted Tifa. I wanted her starfish patch to touch and feel, just for a moment, like I was home. But our belongings remained with the transports for security reasons.

          With nothing else to give me comfort, I turned to Tifa’s music playing silently in my head. I tapped those five notes I’d memorized on my bed, over and over, until I wound up humming her song. Softly, airily, and completely unaware of myself.

          “Hey, shrimp…” my unknown roommate snapped from the dark. “I’m trying to sleep. Shut the hell up, or I’ll sing you a lullaby myself.”

          He was a boy several years older than me, and nearly twice my size. It was a fight I couldn’t win. I was tired of fighting, anyway… For the rest of that night, I slept with my pillow in my arms. Wishing it was her, and wishing I could hear her voice.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          Life got harder after that night. It was no picnic before, to be sure. Prior to this experience, I’d never slept a single night outside my own bed, let alone weeks on end. And the rattling around in that cargo truck introduced me to a new, fresh form of hell: motion sickness. It was only off and on, not a constant problem. But certainly enough to make the trip far more unpleasant than it had to be.

          All of that was tolerable. After the encounter with the Turks, I began attracting a great deal of unwanted attention. Before, I was invisible, and I preferred it that way. Now, the others saw me in one of two ways. Many continued to maliciously antagonize me, much as they had that night. Shoving me, calling me names, and generally bullying me. This, of course, led to more than a few fights. I won a few, lost a few. But, more often than not, I had Luke looking out for me.

          I appreciated it, and I appreciated him far more than I had when we first met. But, honestly, I didn’t like it. How was I going to protect Tifa if I needed a protector myself? This couldn’t stand.

          Slightly better, but still not ideal, the rest tended to treat me like the “little brother” of the group. Generally benevolent, if a bit of light-hearted teasing here and there. But they were mostly rooting for me. I really didn’t like that, either. It didn’t feel like a vote of confidence so much as an expectation of shortcoming. I felt underestimated, and I’d come much too far to be treated like a child. I left home to become a man, not a footstool for more capable men.

          One horrible night, to both my fortune and trauma, this treatment came to an end.

          The convoy had seen us most of the way to Costa Del Sol without any major incidents. But the fact was, we were still deep in the wilds, and many dangers lurked all around us. We traveled with armed escorts for good reason. Until we were properly onboarded and outfitted, we recruits were left unarmed, and would otherwise be vulnerable to whatever fangs and claws prowled the area. Especially at night.

          This realization made for a very anxious first few days on the road for everyone. After a while, when most of us became more concerned with discomfort and hunger, that fear subsided. We let our guard down, as did our security detail, and that was a mistake. We’d done well managing a secure perimeter and avoiding threats spotted from afar, thinking that was all that would be required to get us safely to our destination.

          We’d made our final stop in the valleys of Mt. Corel, where we were to board a Shinra supply train that would take the recruits, along with a delivery of various equipment and provisions, the rest of the way to the harbor. We’d arrived early, and the train wasn’t scheduled to arrive until morning. So, we set up camp one last time with the intent on shipping out at first light. 

          We thought we were safe. This section of the track ran through a narrow, dry gorge with high walls. This time of year, the more hostile, winged creatures that would have posed a danger from above wouldn’t have yet returned from their migration to the more tropical climates far to the south. Apart from that, the gorge itself made for good cover. All we had to do was monitor two choke points, fore and aft. A couple barricades, a handful of lookouts posted on high, and we thought we’d be fine.

          We never expected an attack from below.

          In the dead of night, while Luke snored away, and I distracted myself with my usual mental roster of Tifa’s songs, we were stirred to alertness by the strangest feeling. It was as if the ground beneath our backs vibrated and rippled. Not an earthquake. Softer, quieter, and uneven. Chaotic.

          Luke snorted awake. “Wha’da hell izzat…?” he groggily muttered.

          “I dunno, man.” I whispered in reply. “It’s weird. Maybe we should…”

          We heard the screams before the gunfire, which came seconds later. Three stray bullets ripped through our tent, less than two feet overhead.

          “Wha’da hell izzat?!” Luke shouted, hitting the deck in a panic. 

          I did the same, crawling toward the pup tent flap. Tossing it aside, I looked outside to find mayhem more bizarre than anything I’d ever seen or heard. The ground, now brightly lit by the surrounding floodlights, was churning. Boiling up from beneath, torn apart in the gaping maws of horrible creatures slithering to the surface.

          Pale, slimy, serpentine monsters covered in barbs. Eyeless, with wide, funnel-shaped mouths lined with dozens of sharp, hooked maxillae. Each the size of a small car, and surprisingly fast. I only understood what I was seeing one brief glimpse at a time, as they surfaced, snatched up their prey, and retreated underground in the blink of an eye.

          Soldiers and recruits alike were disappearing underground one after another, each one’s screams summarily silenced under feet of disturbed rock and dirt. Entire tents, crushed and splintered from below. The creatures were shooting from the ground, ramming our vehicles, and their metal armor crumpled like tin cans under the combined force.

          While those still alive scrambled for higher ground, the panicking soldiers around us peppered the ground in a hail of crossfire, making them every bit as much of a danger as the monsters devastating our camp. More than a few recruits and soldiers were cut down by friendly fire, one of whom fell on top of me as Luke and I tried to crawl to safety. His rifle rattled to the ground, just out of my reach.

          As Luke pulled me free, I immediately grabbed the rifle and turned to him. Although these were new to me, and definitely more formidable than anything I’d ever seen, this wasn’t the first time I’d had to save my own life from a pack of monsters. The mountain had taught me to think on my feet, and I did just that.

          “What the hell are we gonna do, Cloud?!” Luke shouted over the shrieks and gunshots.

          “Get to high ground! See those big boulders up ahead?! Get on top of one of those, biggest one you can find! I bet they can’t chew through rock that hard!”

          I looked ahead, and a few of the recruits I knew were cornered by a particularly large beast. It was quickly approaching.

          “Go!! Stay low, move fast, and walk as softly as you can! I dunno for sure, but I think these things can sense footsteps!” I shouted as I made for the endangered recruits, rifle slung over my shoulder.

          “What the hell are you doin’, man?! We gotta go! C’mon!” Luke shouted after me.

          I hesitated, my gaze darting back and forth between Luke and the others.

          “Those guys?! Cloud, they’re dicks! Fuck ‘em! Save yourself!” Luke pleaded.

          He was right. Those guys… I barely knew their names, and they’d been making my life a living hell ever since that night back at the inn. But… I thought of Tifa. I thought of my mother. What would they think of me, turning my back on them like this? They were pricks, but they didn’t deserve to die. Tifa knew what an asshole Emilio was, but she didn’t turn her back on him. She forced him to make peace with me. She hated conflict, and she cherished life, especially after the loss of her mother. 

          She wouldn’t want this. She’d be ashamed of me. She’d hate me.

          “I can’t just let’em die! Just go! I’ll catch up!” I shouted, leaving him behind.

          “You’re fuckin’ crazy, man! Don’t go gettin’ yourself killed!” he called after me, but his voice was drowned out by the chaos and growing distance.

          I only just made it as the worm grabbed one of them by the leg, pulling him toward its burrow as he screamed and begged for his life. I gritted my teeth, and my eyes went wide as I was assaulted with flashbacks of that freakish insect on the mountain. Forced to remember its blade slicing through my grip, its furious and frustrated chittering, and how I’d barely got out alive. I could feel his terror.

          I took the rifle in hand. It was heavy, and hard to aim. I had no idea what I was doing, but I had no other option. I pointed, fired, and prayed for the best. The worm dropped him and released a gargling wail as a barrage of bullets pocked and pierced its slimy hide, spattering its white, viscous lifeblood across the rocks.

          Furious, it reared back and lunged for me. I flinched and sprayed another hail of gunfire in its direction, keeping my eyes tightly closed as I was deafened by the sounds of wet, fleshy impacts and its squeals of agony. When I opened my eyes, it lay at my feet in a dead, sopping mound. But I had no time to process what had just happened before I spotted three more trails of rising soil headed in our direction.

          “Come on! Hurry! Head for the boulders and climb up!” I ordered. The others scrambled to their feet as I took the arm of the boy I saved over my shoulder, limping along behind them.

          “Slowly! They can hear your footsteps!” I shouted after them, and they promptly obeyed. The next handful of seconds felt like an eternity, and I prayed I could get the two of us to safety in time.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          By the time the rest made it to higher ground, the camp was completely destroyed. There would be no further rest that night. Every gun left at our disposal remained trained on the ground until sunrise, blasting anything that moved to pieces. Luke shivered beside me, along with several of the others I’d saved. Clearly, they’d been traumatized. I doubt any of them had ever faced a threat to their lives quite like that before, and I expected more than a few of them would terminate their contracts shortly thereafter. 

          It was only in daylight that we finally got a good look at what attacked us. Land worm larvae. A new breed, by the looks of it. Their natural behavior was to hunt near the surface for the first few months after birth. Ordinarily, you’d only ever see these creatures far out into the desert, well south of Corel. Somehow, these young had found their way beneath the valley. What drove them here, we had no idea. But we had no intention of waiting for more to show up, never mind their colossal mother.

          After a brief death tally and communication with headquarters, we were ordered to continue on to the next station to the north. We’d lost over thirty percent of our number to that attack, without a single body to return home to their loved ones. Those of us who survived would be continuing north on foot. Every vehicle in the convoy had been reduced to scrap in the assault, whether by larvae attacks or our own stray bullets. And only a few of us were fortunate enough to salvage any belongings.

          Digging through the wreckage of the transport that had carried me this far, I discovered that I was among the fortunate few. Though, I only really cared to recover a single item. Thankfully, Tifa’s starfish patch was no worse for the wear. Though my duffel bag had taken a bit of a beating, my sewing kit had survived, as well. While the others took inventory and prepared to move on, I immediately went about removing the patch. I wanted to keep it safely on my person until I could give it another home.

          Once freed from its seams, I held it in my hand and stared at it for a moment, running my thumb over its fading surface. It had been worn and delicate even before Tifa gave it to me, and I couldn’t trust that it would continue to be safe like this.

          I decided then that I wouldn’t leave it unattended anymore. With no photo or other keepsake by which to remember her, with the world poised to swallow me whole as it nearly did last night, this little piece of cloth and thread was as sacred to me as her song. It was the only tangible remnant of her, of my home, that I had left. To me, this little piece of fabric and threading… was her.

          So, I would keep her close. Here, so far from home, so far from her, I would at least keep this part of her safe. And I would survive until I could return it to her. Until I could be near her always and protect her, as I swore that I would. Until then, it would be the totem of my promise.

          “What’s that?” Luke barked in my ear, unannounced. 

          “Nothing!” I snapped, jumping and prickling with embarrassment.

          “Dun’ look like nothin’. Looks like a piece’a quilt, or somethin’. Kinda cutesy-lookin’...” he prodded. I was beginning to remember why I originally hated him.

          “Just drop it! Shut up!” I snapped again, hurriedly placing the patch in my jacket pocket.

          “Hey, now…” he teasingly chided, “Don’ tell me a bona fide badass like you is goin’ around carryin’ a damn binkie! You miss your ma’ that much, y’ought just write her a letter.”

          I turned and grabbed him by the collar, slamming him against the upturned underside of the cargo truck. He raised his hands in pantomime surrender. He was bigger than me, probably could have taken me in a fight. But he was a good guy. I was his friend, he’d decided, whether he was mine or not. He knew he’d crossed the line, and he’d sooner take the punch for it than fight back.

          “Alright, alright!” he nervously chuckled. “Look, alls I’m sayin’ is… You saved those guys’ asses last night, yeah? My own, too, and I won’t soon forget it. I reckon they owe you some respect now, but you won’t get a lick carryin’ somethin’ like that around. I miss my mama, too. I get it. Jus’, you know… keep it to yourself, like. Alright? If ya’ had to save them lowlifes, I’d at least like to see ya’ walk away with the damn feather in yer’ cap that ya’ earned. That’s all.”

          I didn’t appreciate being teased, but he meant well. And he was right, I knew that. With a huff, I let him go and walked away. I didn’t have anything else to say, nor did I really feel the need to apologize. But it was sage advice, and I would be sure to heed his warning. It would be a short while yet before we’d head for the next station, so I decided to take those last few moments in private and cool my head. I had a tendency to remain irrationally angry, even when I knew I shouldn’t. Knowing he’d insist on being my companion for the trip as usual, I found it would be best to get it out of my system while I still could.

          For the next few hours, we marched mostly in silence. Luke had spent a fair bit of that time trying to get back on my good side in that relentless way of his. He tried apologizing several times. After a while, he finally went silent. I wasn’t mad at him anymore, I was just annoyed and on edge from last night. But, now, he was moping. And that annoyed me even more.

          “Look, the patch… it’s not mine. Not my mom’s, I mean. It’s… it’s hers.” I sighed.

          He’d been lagging behind me farther and farther, but this sent him jogging enthusiastically back to my side.

          “Hers…? …Ohhh… Muffin Girl, right?” he laughed.

          I didn’t reply, just stared coldly at him in annoyance. I’d just forgiven him, and he was already walking on thin ice. Again, he threw his hands up in surrender.

          “Hey, I know ya’ don’ appreciate me callin’ ya Muffin Man, and I don’t no more, ‘cause I got a proper name for ya’. But, iffin’ you don’ tell me hers, what am I s’posed to call her?”

          “Tifa, alright? Her name is Tifa. Happy?” I resentfully growled.

          “As a clam at high tide, Muffin Man! ‘Bout time you put a name to that sweet treat!”

          I stopped and walked toward him with intent to do harm. He jogged backward, laughing.

          “Hey, hey! I meant the muffin! The name of the girl who made it, like! Jeez, I ain’t no scumbag, or nothin’... But… Tifa, huh? That's got a cute ring to it, dunnit? I bet she’s a real looker, to get ya’ this hot under the collar!”

          He slugged me on the arm, wearing an obnoxious grin. I wound up to slug him back, and not on the arm. But, with a sigh, I relented. He wasn’t trying to annoy me, he was just trying to be friendly. In his own, stupid way.

          “Yeah… she is…” I reluctantly admitted. “Keep your voice down, alright? If I’m gonna tell you about this, the least you can do is keep it between us.”

          And so, favoring the relative relief of an impromptu confessional over the stress of jumping at every noise around us, I spent the rest of that walk telling him about Tifa and what had happened between us. The long and short of it, anyway, forgoing most of the sappy sentimentality that would only result in more teasing. Enough to give him a solid understanding of what I was doing there, and to justify my touchiness of the past.

          “Damn, Muffin Ma— …um, I mean… Cloud. Sorry.” Luke stammered. Considerately, if annoyingly, correcting himself. “I, uh… I get it now. I mean, as much as I can, that is. If I’da been through all that, I prob’ly would’a just stared at that muffin, too. Ain’t no damn way I’da handed it over to a lunkhead like me, that’s for sure. Guess I should count my blessin’s that ya’ let me keep my teeth all this time, with all that pokin’ and proddin’ I’ve done... I’m sorry, man.”

          That may have been the first time I’d ever heard a note of sincerity in his voice. It was a bit jarring, honestly. I think, by then, I’d come to rely on his usual flippant and lighthearted rhythms to get me through most any given day. It at least cut the tension, made it a bit easier to let go of the more routine and insignificant aches, pains, and irritations. ‘Like water off a duck’s back,’ he’d say. But it was good to know that he did, in fact, have the ability to turn it off when he knew that it wasn’t appropriate.

          He was silent for a while after that. Visibly remorseful, if you can believe it. For a moment, I almost forgot he was there as I lost myself in thoughts of home.

          “Ya’ know…” he suddenly, sheepishly spoke up. “I… I get it more than ya’ think. I had me a lil’ sister, once, ‘round about then… I’s about ten, and she was… six…”

          He paused at length. A look of pain crept over his face, the likes of which I thought I’d never see from him. Something he’d clearly been repressing for quite some time.

          “There’s a kinda bug lives out’n our neck of the woods. We call ‘em rose window beetles, on account’a they got these shiny, rainbowy sorta shells, like. Glowin’ and changin’ colors in the sun. Ever seen one?” he asked.

          I shook my head. He huffed with a somewhat sour smirk.

          “Lucky you. Purtiest lil’ things ya’ ever did see, them… but… deadly as the day is long. Poisonous. Kinda cruel joke, that… makin’ somethin’ scary outta somethin’ so fair and sweet lookin’... Well… Lydia didn’t know. That’s her name, Lydia. Anyway, Lydia… she was alot like yer’ Tifa, yeah? Loved her critters, big or small or ugly… But she took a special shinin’ to the cute and colorful ones. Bunnies, and butterflies, and…. And ladybugs…”

          Again, he went silent. He hung his head and sighed. Drawing a deep breath, he continued.

          “It was spring. Me and pa’ were out tillin’ the fields that afternoon, and Lydia’s galavantin’ in the flowers, like she does. And then she hollars at me, she says, ‘Hey, Luke! Come’n look at this pretty ladybug on my hand! It’s all shiny!’ I didn’t have but five seconds to figure it out ‘afore I saw her keel over. Happens just that quick… One bite’d do in a grown man, let alone a lil’ kid like her… Maybe if we lived closer ta’ town, she’d…

          “Well, anyway… I stayed by her bedside all night with ma’, like you done. Pa’ went for help, but… Well… I’s an only child by dawn. Didn’t get to say goodbye, or nothin’... I wasn’t this loudmouth idjit back then. I’s kinda quiet and stony, like. Kinda like you, I reckon. Lydia was the real shot of life in the family. I guess… I kinda changed to fill her shoes, so ma’ and pa’ could still have both their kids, sorta…”

          His voice was trailing off. Cracking and warbling, on the verge of tears. I never thought I’d see him like this, and I didn’t know what to say.

          “Well, that’s ancient hist’ry…” he said, sniffing and wiping his eyes. “I’m just sayin’ I know what it’s like. So… I’ll look out for ya’, buddy. It ain’t for me, but we’ll get ya’ squared away in Midgar and climbin’ the ranks. And when you’re a big-time SOLDIER and all, you can go get yer girl and tell ‘er you couldn’ta done it without ol’ Luke. Maybe have her bake me s’more of them muffins as thanks, eh?” he laughed.

          I laughed, too. Though, I couldn’t help but feel guilty wearing a smile after what he’d just told me. Still, for the first time since I first met Tifa, I didn’t feel alone anymore. I felt hopeful and confident, like I’d somehow managed to find some small semblance of a home beyond the gates of Nibelheim. I was sure mom would be happy to know it, once I finally got the chance to write. She would have adored this good-hearted buffoon.

          We arrived at the northern station at sundown, understandably behind schedule, to find the supply train waiting for us. Yet, understandable or not, an incident like this would mean mountains of paperwork and red tape to navigate. Heads were going to roll, which made for a far more stressful transition for the rest of us. After an expedient headcount and an aggravated exchange between the engineer and the officer leading our escort, we were packed onto cramped boxcars and sent on our way.

          In terms of space, it was less accommodating even than the cargo trucks that had nearly brought us so far. But after the brutal, restless night we’d just suffered, and then having been forced to hoof it over a dozen miles farther, some with injuries, even these uncomfortable four walls were enough for most to regain what sleep they’d lost. Luke lay curled up nearby beneath the shelter of his own jacket, snoring impossibly louder than the rattling of the rails beneath us.

          I, as most nights, sat awake. Feeling the starfish patch in my pocket, humming her song to myself and trying to find whatever peace I could in the solitude.

          “Strife, right…?” a slightly raspy voice called from across me in the suffocating gloom.

          “Right…” I answered.

          “I, uh… I owe you an apology.” He leaned forward, into the scant moonlight spilling through the slats near the boxcar roof. The boy I’d saved last night, now looking battered and exhausted.

          “Oh. You.” I huffed.

          “Yeah… me. I wouldn’t wanna remember me, either, I guess.” he whined. 

          It wasn’t that I couldn’t remember his name, so much as that I never cared to learn it.

          “I underestimated you, kid. You did a great thing back there. A lot of us owe you our lives.” he said.

          “Yeah, well, you’re welcome. And stop calling me ‘kid’. You’re not that much older than me.” I dismissed.

          “Yeah, there I go again…” he sighed, leaning back into the shadows. “I got no right. You sure were the bigger man, then. If it weren’t for you, I’d never get the chance to be a man at all. I’d be in some underground pit somewhere, chewed up inside whatever that thing called a stomach. Thanks to you, in a few hours, I’ll be soaking up a little sun while I figure out whatever I’m gonna do with the rest of my life.”

          “What, you’re not going for SOLDIER anymore, tough guy? You scared?” I derided. 

          I could have accepted his thanks more gracefully. I knew I was kicking him while he was down, but I never claimed to be honorable by most standards. Truthfully, I felt he should have been grovelling at my feet, and it infuriated me that he somehow still seemed to think that he had the upper hand in this exchange. Though he did it through the occasional twinge of pain, it only made me angrier when he laughed.

          “Nah…” he chuckled. “This is the end of the line for me, sadly. That thing broke my leg. Damn near twisted it off before you shot it. The medic took one look at it, and he knew I wouldn’t be useful in this line of work anymore. Said I’d be lucky to walk again, let alone fight. Wouldn’t have even made it this far if they didn’t carry me here on a damn stretcher. They’re putting me out to pasture before I even had the chance to wear the uniform. Whatever I do from here on, I’ll probably be doing it on a cane. And that’s if I’m lucky.”

          Hearing that cooled me. Now, I just felt bad for him. But he didn’t seem to be taking it too hard.

          “Oh… I’m sorry to hear that.” I consoled as gently as I could. I attempted to veil my remaining contempt. But, again, he laughed.

          “Hey, don’t sweat it. Serves me right, for how I treated you. At least I’ll get to recover on Shinra’s dime, and I couldn’t have asked for a better place to do it.” he groaned, awkwardly shifting his position to sit more upright. “Look, just… I was wrong. You got what it takes, I can see that. So, go out there and make me eat my words. Give ‘em hell, kid…”

          “Stop calling me ‘kid’…” I grumbled. 

          He didn’t hear me. And by the sound of his snores, I wouldn’t be hearing any more from him the rest of that night, either.

          As the hours passed, the dusty heat of Corel’s mountain air was replaced with a cool and floral ocean breeze. Calming, despite the snores. Soothing, and meditative. In the momentary serenity, I pondered their words. His and Luke’s. Two very different people, people who wouldn’t have seen eye-to-eye on most things, yet they agreed in their opinion of me. In their eyes, at that moment… I was a man. And I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.

          My mother would have been proud of me. Tifa would, too, most likely. I should’ve felt proud of myself, but I didn’t. Wasn’t that why I came out here in the first place? To become a man? Just what was ‘manhood’, anyway? Was it enough to be relied upon and trusted like this? 

          This guy and Luke… They were untrained and untested. Boys, just like me. Sure, I’d shown initiative. But I hadn’t done anything that wouldn’t be expected of all of us in the days to come, and likely would be many times. In my mind, their assessment of me didn’t carry much weight. But whose would? Would any amount of praise or trust, from any measure of authority, be enough to absolve me? 

          In the end, only Tifa’s opinion was ever going to matter to me. But even hers hadn’t changed my mind. She’d forgiven me years ago, accepted me. Even wanted me back in her life. To her, I was probably already good enough. And yet, I just couldn’t accept it. My weakness had hurt her, and my failure had almost gotten her killed. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that it would never be enough, the more lost I felt.

          I only wish I could go back and tell myself what I have since figured out. The only opinion that could change anything… was mine. I would never be enough until I could trust myself. Until I could see myself through her eyes, and forgive myself as she had forgiven me…

          I would never be a man.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          By noon, we’d arrived in paradise. White sands, blue waves. Sprawling hills of green fronds and pastel flowers. Pristine storefronts, luxury hotels, and carefree tourists having fun in the sun. Our military-industrial presence was the only eyesore, and in an official capacity, Shinra meant to keep it that way. The machinations of their navy would be kept to back alleys and harbor freight operations, while the gangways, beaches, and boardwalks would be left wide open to sun hats, leis, and leisure. 

          Much to everyone’s relief, the ship meant to deliver us to Junon wouldn’t be departing for several days. It would take time to offload the supply train into the hold, and for military personnel, that time was considered shore leave. Nearly everyone would be savoring every second in Costa Del Sol as their last reprieve before what was sure to be a grueling training regimen, never mind the rest of the journey to Midgar. And Shinra, owning the land and resort, would be more than happy to absorb our signing bonuses back into their own coffers.

          I may have been the one and only exception. While everyone gathered their belongings and scrambled for whatever lodgings they could find, I was happy to head straight for my quarters on the ship. Especially once I saw a truck from the local postal service headed in that direction. I needed to write home, and I prayed to find a letter waiting with my name on it.

          While the rest would be spending the next two days in luxury resorts and on the beach, I would be spending mine in a cramped and windowless berthing compartment. Luke, of course, tried to convince me otherwise. He was a fun-loving guy, and he wasn’t about to waste the opportunity when there were sure to be so few in the near future. Nor did he understand why I would want to waste the beautiful weather and spectacular view ‘holed up in a floating tuna can’.

          I told him that I needed the peace and quiet, though I didn’t explain myself. He’d never understand. I still wasn’t the social type, and I was most comfortable alone. This was the first chance I’d had in weeks to enjoy a little solitude and, frankly, I needed a vacation from his overbearing energy most of all. Though, of course, I wasn’t going to tell him that.

          The S-EPF 025 was one of Shinra’s new fleet of expeditionary fast transports. Very impressive, but not in the way expected of the sleek cruiseliners and yachts most commonly found at Costa Del Sol’s harbor. Large, imposing, and designed purely for function and efficiency. Zero creature comforts, zero wasted space. A hulking, steel behemoth of claustrophobic passageways, exposed piping, and loud machinery.

          ‘A marvel of mako and Shinra ingenuity,’ they’d called it, insisting that we should consider ourselves lucky. They noted, quite proudly, that it would reduce a five-day voyage at sea to three. A fact for which I would most certainly be grateful, given how my constitution had already suffered on the road. And yet, I came from a world of quaint and cozy simplicity. Modest, wooden furniture, wool blankets, and stone fireplaces. Three days in this contraption sounded like hell.

          It was both a blessing and a curse when I did get that letter. We had no individually designated space on that ship, so I had to track down the mail room, which was an ordeal in and of itself. I felt terribly out of place, slowly inching my way through cramped hallways, past crew too busy to help a lost child, and clearly the only person on the entire ship without a sense of direction.

          From the moment my mother’s letter touched my hand, a warm swell of relief welled up within me. It was the first real sense of comfort I’d felt since I left home, apart from what solace my small mementos of Tifa could afford me. And it would sustain me until we reached the western shore. Even before I opened the envelope, the smallest details I would have normally taken for granted magnified and drowned out the stress that surrounded me, soothing my senses and calming my nerves.

          I felt the slight weight of it in my hand, the fibrous grain of the paper. My mother’s special stationary. She had a few different flavors. Some beautiful and elegant, some fun and colorful, all special ordered and rarely used. She always said she didn’t have much of it left, and that it wasn’t made anymore. So, when she did write letters, she saved these for special occasions and special people. This kind was particularly special. She’d selected it specifically for me, and I immediately knew why. 

          It was a cute and charming design. A faded flax yellow, blonde near white gold, like my hair had been when I was still a baby. It featured an ornamental border of fluffy clouds, my namesake, and a collection of bright, geometric sun designs. She said those represented her happiness, and the new light of her life. This was the stationary she once used to announce my birth to distant friends and relatives. Most of whom I’d never met, but all of whom were special to her at one point or another in her life.

          Without knowing how much it meant to her, I once found a stack of this stationary as a small child and doodled on it, just because I thought the design was pretty. Surprisingly, my mother wasn’t upset. On the contrary, she was overjoyed, and she actually joined me. We bonded over it, drawing little “Cloud and mommy” cartoons that lived on our refrigerator and a number of other places of honor in our home for quite some time. That was also the origin of the little cartoon face she’d invented for me, the same one she’d used on my ‘apology cake’ for Tifa years ago.

          There wasn’t much of it left after our little art project, only a handful of sheets and envelopes that remained untouched for years. She had been saving them for me, waiting for the day that this dreaded tradition would take me from her. A subtle reminder of her love for me, to give me the comfort of home she knew I would need.

          On paper of matching design, in her finest handwriting that I could never hope to match, my mother wrote:

          “My sweet chickadee, 

          You’ve only been gone for an hour, and I already miss you terribly. This home just won’t be the same without you, sweetheart. Still, I want you to know that I’m proud of you. I don’t like this tradition of ours. I don’t like that I have to lose my little boy so young. But, the truth is, you haven’t been a boy for a while now.

          You’ve grown, son. You’re so much stronger than you realize, and the reason isn’t lost on me. All that you’ve done and made of yourself, I know you’ve done for Tifa. You’ve done wonderful things for that girl, and because of her, you’ve become a reliable man. Whatever you choose to do in your life, I know you will shine and thrive.

          She’s sleeping at the moment, in your bed. She came running to our door only a few minutes after you left, holding the patch that you made her. I think she saw the car that drove you out of town. Cloud, she was heartbroken that she didn’t get the chance to say goodbye. I haven’t seen her cry like that in a very long time, not since the days after we lost her mother.

          She could hardly speak. I couldn’t get more than a few words out of her. She just curled up on your bed and cried herself to sleep, the poor thing. Her father came looking for her shortly after she showed up, but I told her it was okay for her to stay as long as she likes. I haven’t the heart to move her. I’ll make her breakfast in the morning.

          I don’t tell you this to make you feel bad, Cloud. I just thought you should know, because it’s clear to me how much you mean to her. You two have been through a lot, and it hasn’t all been nice. But she’s very sad to lose you, too. She hasn’t let go of that dolphin patch since she got here, and she fell asleep holding it to her face. She loves you, son.

          Honey, as silly as I feel for it, I can’t promise you that things will be the same between her and me. But I can promise you that I will take care of her while you’re away, in whatever way I can. If she ever needs a shoulder to cry on, or someone to step in where her mother can’t, I promise I’ll be there for her. So, don’t worry. But if she means enough to you to do this now, be sure that you make every moment count. And come back to us one day, healthy and happy. We’ll be waiting for you.

          I love you, Cloud. My sweet baby boy.

          — Mommy”

          As lonely as I was, at that moment, I was glad to be alone. Tears were spilling down my cheeks before I even finished the letter. So much that I’d been holding in for weeks came rushing to the surface, and not in a way that was easy to process. Suddenly, I was glad that she’d spent that time babying me, and I dearly wished to have even one more night of it. One more familiar, home-cooked meal. One more night of stories and snuggles.

          I’d spent all my life at her side, never away longer than half a day. Apart from that night I spent at the Lockhart home after watching over Tifa, I’d never even gone a night without sleeping under the same roof as her. I had taken her for granted. I had taken my peaceful life for granted. Back then, I’d have never imagined that I could miss her so much.

          And Tifa… She cried for me. Not just cried, but suffered, by the sound of it. It truly pained her to see me go, and to miss her chance at a proper goodbye. Realizing this struck me with another new feeling, the first I didn’t understand in a long while. My heart sank, and yet, it felt as light as air. I felt homesick, lovesick… but gleefully hopeful. It was confusing. 

          On one hand, I was so happy. She hadn’t reacted this way when the other boys left. She was sad to see them go, yes, but not like this. For all the doubt I’d felt the night I made her that promise, as uncertain as I was about her true feelings for me, this was entirely unambiguous. My mother was right. How, and to what degree, I didn’t know. But she did love me.

          Then, on the other hand… I caused her this pain. She was crying because I wasn’t there. Because I had abandoned her. Again. Even though I had only the best of intentions, even though I only wanted what was best for her, I was still the one causing her so much heartache. Was I being selfish? Was all of this really more for me than for her, because I couldn’t forgive myself for failing her? What good would it do to prepare myself to protect her when I was already one of her greatest sources of pain? How much could I hurt her like this before she didn’t want me anymore?

          There was more that my mother had sent along with her letter. Pictures, mainly. A few old photos, and some drawings she’d done that she knew would make me laugh. As much as I wanted to see it all and savor every little detail, I didn’t have it in me that night. Up until that moment, I had been eagerly anticipating the first letter I would receive from home. I expected it would bring me comfort, and in some ways, it had. But… It had stirred heavy feelings in me for which I wasn’t prepared. Feelings of conflict and consequence. Of wanting to be better and stronger, as I had since before I left, but weighing against the cost of my old world and the two people I loved more than life itself.

          I’d told my mother that I’d write her every day, and here I’d only found the chance weeks after my departure. She’d surely been awaiting contact from me just as anxiously as I had from her, if not more. I owed her a reply, and deeply wanted to give her one. But I was at a loss for words. I couldn’t think of anything to say that would bring her comfort, apart from knowing how much I loved and missed her.

          Could I really tell her that I was okay, when I’d suffered such cruel treatment from the other recruits? To not worry, when I’d so nearly lost my life before I even reached Midgar or donned the uniform? I couldn’t even tell her that I was mentally well. Not after what I’d just read, and how it made me feel. It would be a wonder if I could even pull it together enough to evade questioning before Luke showed up to occupy the sleeping rack below mine, as he undoubtedly would.

          With little else to distract me from my unnerving surroundings, I lied back atop my rack and pulled Tifa’s starfish patch from my pocket, staring at length into its familiar smile.

          “Time to give you a new home…” I whispered aloud.

          But where? Initially, I wanted to sew it to my jacket, but Luke had warned me that I couldn’t let it be seen by the other recruits, or it would only cause me more problems. I closed my eyes, holding it to my chest. Thinking of Tifa sleeping in my bed, holding that dolphin patch so close to her cheek in the night, I hoped that she held it as near and dear to her heart as I held the starfish in mine.

          In the end, I decided that it didn’t need to be seen, nor even to be felt. It only had to be close. Close to my heart. So, that was where I would keep it. I decided to sew it to my jacket, after all. To the inside, just below the left breast pocket, which would serve to hide its stitching. As near to my heart as my every memory of her. As near as her every song. That’s where it would live, from one jacket to another, each and every day until I could return it to her.

          I spent the rest of that day atop my rack, shuffling and squirming as I tried and failed to adjust. Even sleeping on the cold, hard ground in those pup tents was more comfortable. The more I tossed and turned, the more I prayed that my service to Shinra would remain in Midgar proper. I couldn’t imagine what it must have been like to spend a significant portion of the year sleeping aboard a ship like this.

          Just one more annoyance to keep me awake in the night, as if Luke’s snoring and the roaring machinery around us wouldn’t be enough. Let alone the motion sickness that was sure to strike the moment we shoved off. These troubling-yet-comforting thoughts of home were the final nail in the coffin, but I was determined to get what little sleep I could in the time I’d been granted. Once we left shore, it was going to be a rough and restless three days.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          Nearly the entire time I waited for the rest of the recruits to join me on the ship, I struggled to find the words to reply to my mother. The pressure of time didn’t help, either. If I didn’t send my reply before the postal service returned ashore, I wouldn’t get another chance until we landed at Junon. And who knows how long it would take to arrive back home when it had to cross the sea to get there.

          When I finally managed to put pen to paper, mere hours before we set sail, the best I could do was short and sweet:

          “Dear mom,

          I’m sorry I haven’t written. I know I said I would write every day, and I still plan to. But it took weeks on a truck just to get to Costa Del Sol. This is the first chance I’ve had.

          I miss you. I miss home, and I miss Nibelheim. I miss Tifa. I’m sad to know that I made her cry again. I hope she can forgive me. Thank you for taking care of her.

          We’ll be setting sail for Junon in a few hours, so I don’t have much time. I promise I’ll write again when I arrive. And I’ll remember everything you taught me. I’ll be okay, so don’t worry.

          — Cloud”

          I felt bad. My mother had gone out of her way to reassure and comfort me, to leave me feeling the love in her words. She’d been waiting so long to hear from me, and this was the best I could do. So much time had passed, and after all I’d gone through, I couldn’t spare her any details. I didn’t want her to worry, and I didn’t like lying to her. My next letter would have to make up for this sad attempt, somehow.

          I wanted to write to Tifa, too. Desperately, after what mom had told me about the morning I left. I had so much I wanted to say, and yet, I still couldn’t find the words. It seemed that, whenever I thought of her, there would always be mixed feelings. Riding what was, in my mind, a razor’s edge between the certainty that she loved me and the lingering suspicion that she resented me. Despite all she had done to close the gap, despite knowing her heart had broken for losing me, I was still trapped in the same cycle of self-sabotage.

          I must have spent an hour sitting there with my pen pressed to the paper, unable to even so much as write her name. As a nine-year-old boy, I’d managed to write that letter to her when she was unconscious, though she would never lay eyes upon it. The words came so easily, and with so much heart. I’d nearly confessed my love for her. 

          Why was it so difficult now? Was it for fear that she was upset with me, even though I’d always been wrong when I made that assumption in the past? Was it the fear of getting too close, and the worry that she may forget me someday? Or was it just another consequence of how we’d grown? The deep, new, and mature feelings I now held for her, and the tongue-tied apprehension they evoked…

Of course, I was also just as hesitant to tell her the truth of my experience so far. I couldn’t bring myself to lie to her, either, and there was nothing truthful I could tell her that wouldn’t unnerve her. I never even told her what I did on the mountain since we took that fall, or all the close scrapes with death I had faced because of it. 

          I could never forget the look on her face the night I hobbled back into town at death’s door. The terror in her eyes, and the tears she’d shed for me, even though I’d only been missing for a handful of hours. How could I possibly burden her with the pain and peril I faced now?

          Regrettably, I had hesitated too long. The others began piling in and filling up the racks before I could write a single word. With their growing number, against my better judgment, I chose to put it off. After what happened in Corel, I had finally gained a measure of respect. I couldn’t risk the chance of more teasing, or worse, bullying. Certainly not over her. I had confided in Luke, trusting that he had the best of intentions. Beyond what I’d told him, I intended to keep those thoughts and feelings private.

          I only managed to get my letter to the mail room just before the shipment, less than half an hour before departure. And, just as I had assumed, the nightmare began right away. As we backed out of the dock, the deck vibrated with the engines roaring to life beneath my feet. The racket of the surrounding machinery, which was already insufferable, grew even louder. And every dip and bob on the water, which most evidently didn’t notice, immediately turned my stomach a sickly yellow-green.

          The crew had promised us smooth sailing, attempting to sell us on yet more features of the ship’s advanced technology. Apparently, ‘smooth’ was subjective, because I’d never felt rougher. And the feeling scarcely ever subsided for the entire trip. The berthing chamber was intolerable. Something about windowless, cramped spaces made the sickness so much worse. Needless to say, I spent just as little time in the mess bay.

          I spent the first few hours of the trip in the sick bay, until they decided they could do nothing for me beyond throwing a handful of nausea medication at me and sending me on my way. After that, almost all of my time was spent on the upper deck, as close to fresh air as humanly possible. When I wasn’t hanging my head over the railing, I was leaning against it while Luke pitched various unavailable home remedies. Of course, every suggestion had to come with a story.

          “You know what you gotta do?” he said, slapping me on the back in a friendly way that made me want to murder him. “You gotta chew ginger root. My pa’ used to have this rickety, ol’ pickup truck that kinda bucked and wobbled, like, right? Did a number on his guts somethin’ awful. So, what he did was….”

          “God damn it, Luke.…” I retched. “Do you see any ginger root around here?”

          Dizzy and miserable, I slid down the railing and sat, staring at the sky. Were it not for the relentless illness, this would have been a nice day. The kind of day that I would have been happy to spend with Tifa at the river, climbing trees and catching frogs. Today, I’d have to settle for Luke’s company. At the time, it wasn’t the best consolation.

          “Yeah, I guess not, huh?” he sighed, taking a seat next to me. “Well… Maybe just some good company to distract ya’, then.”

          “Ugh… I'm gonna hurl…” I moaned, entirely indifferent to his presence at this point. Again, he clapped me on the back, knowing I didn't have the strength to yell at him. 

          “Yeesh… You gotta toughen up, bud. Don't mean no offense by it, or nothin’. I'm just sayin’, y'know… They're gonna put us through the ringer, come Midgar. Can't be gettin’ all green around the gills on account'a some wobblin’ under yer feet.”

          “Leave… me… alone…” I miserably groaned, curling into a fetal position.

          “C'mon, now! Some exercise'll do ya good! Up an’ at ‘em! Let's get ya some sea legs!” he enthusiastically cheered. 

          He stood and grabbed me by the arm, attempting to pull me to my feet. All he managed to do was drag me to a face-down sprawl. Sighing, and to punctuate his exasperation, he freed my arm to let it slap listlessly upon the deck. 

          “Dead as a door nail…” he tutted. “Alright, Muffin Man… I'm gonna go for a run, take advantage of the little fresh air we got left ‘afore we land. Iffin ya ain't dead by the time I come back ‘round, maybe you wanna join me?”

          “Stop calling me that…” I gurgled, half-muffled and warped by my cheek pressed into the cold, damp teak beneath my face. 

          “Yeah, well, what say you stand up and make me, then? I'll take that knuckle sammich with a side of fries if it'll make ya get the lead out!” he laughed over his shoulder, jogging off and out of earshot.

          He was an ass. But, again, he was right. And in more ways than one. If I planned to make anything of myself, sooner or later, I was going to have to suck it up and fight through the pain. Physically and mentally. 

          Since I left Nibelheim, I'd spent most of my time homesick, moping, and indignant. I was feeling sorry for myself, and that wouldn't do. I meant for that starfish patch I was wearing secretly upon my chest to be a source of strength and motivation, and a reminder of the promise it represented. 

          I'd spent all that time on the mountain just as isolated, just as uncomfortable, all on my own. And I'd faced and survived it all in preparation for this. It was time to find that spirit and sense of purpose again, to hold my head high, look forward, and start walking.

          So, that’s exactly what I did. That night, when the foot traffic had mostly receded below-decks, I stood and took my first steps. Slowly, steadily, and with focused and deliberate breathing, I walked laps around the deck. Willing myself well, forcing myself back to strength and independence.

          I was determined to step off of that ship and onto dry land on my own two legs, forgoing whatever ambulatory vessel they had undoubtedly prepared to be rid of me. Or, at the very least, to regain enough strength to give Luke a sorely overdue slugging.

          As the clamor of footsteps slowed and quieted, as the crowd thinned and disappeared, I looked skyward and took in the stars. Marveling in their beauty, remembering the heavenly crown she'd worn that night, and knowing I'd likely never have the chance to appreciate them this way in the city. 

          Beneath their glamour, I beheld a stellar haze like the glistening strands of her silky locks. Drizzled in the ocean mist, I recalled her fragrance of cool violets and lilac. And on the wafting breeze, above the drone of engines I'd finally learned to ignore, I imagined her gentle keystrokes fluttering through my open window. 

          Defying the chaos, I found my peace. 

          In soundless memory, I listened to her heart for the first time since I left that dolphin patch on her doorstep. And in the silence, I heard her lonely tears that fell upon my pillow.

Chapter Text

X

Her Fugue in Disillusion

          In my last few hours aboard the ship, after I managed to get the nausea under control, I once again racked my brain trying to think of what to say to Tifa. And once again, the words escaped me as I sat before a blank page with pen in hand. I still couldn’t lie to her. I couldn’t even sugarcoat the truth, and that left me with nothing to say.

          I could humor my mother. For the sake of reassuring her, of reminding her that I loved her and that I was thinking of her, I could easily omit the more grisly details of my time away from home. I could pad my messages with the sort of fluffy platitudes that I knew she loved. Even if she knew that sort of behavior wasn’t me, even if she suspected I was hiding something, she was also the kind to ignore inconvenient truths and frightening possibilities. She’d accept whatever I sent her, so long as I sounded happy and well-adjusted.

          Tifa, on the other hand, would know. I knew she would, and even if I thought she wouldn’t, it simply wasn’t in me to lie to her. I wanted her to know my heart as it truly was, and just like back in Nibelheim, it was easier to keep the darker part to myself and stay silent than it was to confide in her and risk losing her. Finally, I just decided to put my thoughts on paper. Brief, blunt, and filterless in words she’d never read. The first of what would be many letters that would live in my journal, too frightfully honest to share.

          "Dear Tifa,

          The other recruits are jerks. I almost got eaten, and then I almost got shot. I get sick when we travel sometimes. It sucks. There's also this loudmouth idiot named Luke who follows me around everywhere, but I kinda like him. I think you would, too.

          - Cloud"

——————

          Those first few steps on dry land were an overwhelming relief. On the final day before we arrived at Junon, my condition had improved. Luke was right, the fresh air and exercise actually did me good. I also found that, somehow, staring at the sky helped. It was enough to get by and see myself off the ship with dignity and self-respect. Sadly, despite the improvement, I was still a bit too sick to fully appreciate the view on the final approach. Though, it certainly did leave a lasting impression.

          Built into the face of the rocky bluff stood a fortified city marked by Shinra's monogrammed banners. The warm dawn gleamed across its towering facade of corroded, sun-bleached steel. As the ship drew closer, the glare faded to reveal its tiered rows of densely packed apartments and storefronts. Closer still, as its array of concealed artillery tracked our approach, we saw the poverty trapped beneath its shadow. Skirting the mechanized lower docks, a humble fishing village lingered from the days before Shinra's influence. Here lay the vestiges of a simpler, more peaceful life, robbed of its sky and livelihood by ruthless military ambition.

          Most striking of all was its titanic main cannon. The Sister Ray, they called it. I’d once read it was powerful enough to send entire armadas to the ocean floor. Jutting prominently from Junon’s central mass, it stood sentinel against any threat, though its intimidating scale was a much more effective deterrent than the firepower most had likely never seen. A deliberately brutal symbol of Shinra dominance.

          It was far more impressive than I ever could have imagined. If this was the might of the Shinra military, it was no wonder Wutai bent the knee. It inspired confidence, but also a foreboding sense of oppression. I may have been safe in the rank and file, but the common civilian would undoubtedly live in fear under their iron fist. Suddenly, the Nibelheim elders’ tension in the presence of Shinra made much more sense.

        Regardless, there would be time to weigh my opinions of my employer later. At the time, I was just happy to take those first few steps off the gangway and onto solid ground. While Luke trailed behind me and nursed a freshly slugged arm, I took a deep breath and immediately regretted it. My nose and lungs were instantly saturated in the stench of oily brine and wet rust.

          Despite straddling the sea, even the salt air choked on the stench of mako, smoke, and the toxic dust of industry. Nature had no hold here; no respite from this suffocating cage of stone and steel. It was astonishing and bewildering, entirely unlike the simple life I'd left behind.

          I couldn’t see the appeal. In fact, it disgusted me. It made me dread our arrival in Midgar beyond the harsh training that I already knew awaited. I assumed that a place made for civilian life, let alone Shinra’s famed seat of luxury and pinnacle of civilization, would be more pleasant on the senses. Still, as different as it was certain to be from the life I’d known, I feared that it may be an acquired taste at best. Either way, I’d have to adjust.

          Fortunately, we wouldn’t be lingering for long. After the setback at Corel, there wasn’t exactly time in the schedule for sightseeing. From what I heard, just getting out of Junon and back on our way was going to be a logistical nightmare. Those transports we had left behind at Corel in twisted heaps were meant to join us aboard the ship and see us the rest of the way. Without them, we were temporarily stranded.

        Junon had few transports to spare. So, for most of us, Shinra was going to have to improvise if we were going to arrive on schedule. For me and a handful of others, that meant traveling with one of Shinra’s contracted couriers. Crammed among a ramshackle, disorganized mess of cargo and livestock. We’d be traveling a considerable distance farther southeast to an “exchange station” just outside a town called Kalm, where a series of Shinra air transports would fly us directly to headquarters, bypassing any further setbacks we would otherwise encounter on the congested city streets.

          No armed escort this time. Apparently, Shinra thought it would suffice to simply put our driver in a military uniform with a rifle on display in the passenger seat. Barring any more devastating encounters with monsters, they felt that would give us just enough of an official appearance to intimidate any would-be bandits. Forgiving the very unofficial, unprofessional, rattling, wooden trailer with a wobbling axle.

          And wobble, it did, to the horrible irritation of my stomach and nerves. Brutally, mercilessly, and in the presence of a few new faces with yet more brilliant, very unavailable home remedies. They insisted on the healing power of peppermint, but had no peppermint to offer. They warned me about reading on the road, even though they never saw me holding a book. It was actually enough to make me miss Luke, who had the good fortune of securing a ride on one of Shinra’s official transports. At least his idiocy could make me laugh on occasion.

          Mercifully, we actually managed to make it to the exchange station before I got sick and embarrassed myself. Though only in the company of a handful of other recruits, none of whom I knew particularly well, I’d still worked hard to regain my composure and dignity before setting foot ashore. I didn’t want to screw it up now.

        And so, as the others talked and relaxed, as the driver set up shop in an attempt to make an extra gil or two while we all waited, I lied down in the tall grass and stared at the stars. Hoping it would help as much as it did at sea, and that it would be enough to get me back on my feet before it was time to leave.

        “Fuh-huh-huuuuuuck….” I loudly moaned, spread eagle on the ground with the world spiraling beneath my back. Like Luke, I was now perfectly comfortable swearing without my mother in earshot. The nausea and misery certainly lowered my inhibitions in that regard.

          “You know what you gotta do…” one of the other recruits started, his booted footsteps crunching in the grass near my head.

        “What I gotta do… is lay here, not listen to you, and try not to die. Please, go away.” I dismissed without ever opening my eyes. To my gratitude, he walked away quietly and without protest.

          I’m not sure how long I stewed there, bubbling and brewing in my own sickness. But, it was long enough to gather more unwanted attention. A woman I had yet to meet approached me, offering me water and a wry brand of sympathy. A friendly gesture, but between my mother’s past lessons and my current discomfort, I wasn’t inclined to trust her. Dubiously, I asked her how much it would cost me. She handed it over for free, along with a warning that Shinra’s transport may not take me in my condition.

          This woman had a striking appearance, to say the least. Disarmingly so, in fact. Twenty-years-old at most. Slender, beautiful, and curvaceous. A fact of which she was clearly aware, as she dressed and moved to take full advantage of it. Very comfortable, and effective, manipulating young, impressionable, teenage boys like myself. Were I not so taken with Tifa, and had my circumstances been different, even I may have been wrapped around her little finger.

        She was also the first proper city person that I’d met who wasn’t wearing a Shinra uniform. So, my mother’s prejudice immediately came to mind. In hindsight, I wish I’d listened. Mom told me that many would take advantage of my trust and vulnerability to turn a profit at my expense, and she was right. I was about to learn that lesson the hard way.

        She targeted the weakest of us. The most desperate, those of us with something to prove. And when she turned our attention to the “Turk” sitting among us, saying he knew a fast track to make it in SOLDIER, who were we to question it? We’d seen them before we ever made it to Junon, and he certainly looked the part. With that same air of dark mystery and intimidation, why would we question his authority?

        His assessment of us was less than flattering, even insulting. He warned us of the difficulty, the danger, and the surgery, but it was all for show. Reverse psychology to make us redouble on our convictions, and it worked like a charm. Then came the pitch: a “fee” to cover the arrangements. 2,000 gil to become a hero? I couldn’t have asked for a better deal. 

          And there it was. My vulnerability. He exploited my lack of confidence. When I couldn’t believe in myself, and he knew that I didn’t, it was a simple thing to sell me false hope in a shortcut.

          My mother had placed that 2,000 gil in my belongings. It was all she had on hand, all she could spare, and all I had to my name. Thanks to my own gullibility and naïveté, I would arrive in Midgar penniless. She’d be ashamed of me, and when the payoff never came, I would be equally ashamed of myself.

          Even then, when I was none the wiser, it still didn’t feel right. “Fast track”, “shortcut” — Those words smacked of the same weakness I sought to overcome. The man who would care for Tifa wouldn’t need that sort of crutch. As I sat near the campfire, holding my now empty wallet, I regretted it. A wallet that, ironically, once belonged to my father. His same tendency toward recklessness and indiscretion got him killed, and left my mother and me to grieve his loss.

          I realized then that I would need more than strength to be the man I’d intended to be for her. I needed to learn. To be wise, even at the risk of being jaded. To survive, I had to be smarter, or the city would eat me alive.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          "Dear Tifa,

          I've seen Junon, and I just got to Midgar. I don't like it here. Nothing grows here. It's all metal, and it stinks. I miss home. I miss you.

          - Cloud"

——————

          Since I was a little kid, I’d heard many tales about the size and grandeur of Midgar. Both from passers through, and from locals who had reason to visit on occasion. “Midgar is the way of the future,” some would say. Others would say it was a stain on the face of the planet, a blight on the natural way of things. I was too little to understand either sentiment, especially having never seen it for myself. But every story, no matter the opinion behind it, had one thing in common: the place was massive and, for better or worse, a true testament to the ingenuity of mankind.

          The last daylight had faded by the time we arrived. Between the haze of the overcast sky and the lightless wasteland beyond its expanse, the city would be the only thing we could see. And, oh, what a sight it was. Enough to completely eclipse the churning of my stomach. All I could do was stare, speechless and in awe. The stories I’d heard could have never done it justice.

          It started with the sounds. The horns and revving engines of busy roadways, countless vehicles of the kind I’d only ever seen a handful in my young life. The whirring and roaring of other air traffic circling above. Then, the blinding shafts of its halogen searchlights pierced the dark, waving and scanning the skies. The first building to crest the horizon, Shinra’s mammoth main tower, stood singularly dominant at its center. Midgar’s beating heart, a symbol grander and more inspiring than any banner, glowing and pulsing with silent power.

          Encircling that tower at a great distance, a vast barrier housing eight gargantuan reactors. Belching the sickly green vapors of processed mako into the skies as it ceaselessly pumped electricity into the city’s thirsty veins. Filling that disk, nearly without horizon, was a field of lights denser and more dazzling than I ever could have dreamed. A combined luminance so bright and strong as to swallow the very starlight above.

          It was the unfathomable opulence of the cosmos, ensnared and tamed upon the land. Yet, not so distant or mysterious, I soon found. As we entered its perimeter, the city expanded beneath us, and I could see its true face. In brief, blurry moments as it rushed by, I could see homes and storefronts. Towering skyscrapers, factories, and fields of industry. Paved and bustling roads mingling with domestic, cobblestone paths. Never finished, always under construction. A living, breathing, and growing world all its own.

          Each speck of light, a home for several lives. Each life its own story, filled with private tragedy and dreams, sadness and joy. A world where neighbors were strangers, where one could be surrounded by thousands, yet still feel alone. And I, just a thirteen-year-old boy from the sleepy countryside, never felt smaller or less significant. In this place of boundless ambition and greed, where self-centered city folk reached higher and higher because too much was never enough, there was only one thing I wanted. One dream, one undying hope. And I wouldn’t find it here. Only the means to an end.

          I immediately understood my mother’s loathing for this place. We hadn’t even landed, and I already didn’t like it. Back home, my sweet Tifa could spend the day greeting everyone as she always did, certain to receive a smile and a wave from every passer-by. Maybe even a hug or two from those who especially adored her, of whom there were many. In Nibelheim, she was important and beloved. Safe in our isolated and unspoiled simplicity, where everyone knew her name and appreciated her beautiful smile. 

          Here, she would be ignored. Stepped over, and discarded. Knowing what I now knew, I would never decide the course of her life for her, or prescribe her any way of living it. She may have wanted to see this place for herself one day, and I wouldn’t dare deny her the experience. But… I didn’t want it to see her. To hurt her. A place like this could so easily and casually break a pure heart like hers, or harden it and make it lesser, starve it of the love that made it thrive. 

          Why on earth would Emilio ever want to bring her here?

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          We touched down at a helipad near the top floor of the Shinra tower, hailed by a series of guiding lights and a scattering of rushed ground crew. Before we even landed, the sense of revulsion that struck me at Junon returned, as the smell immediately consumed me. The metallic tang of iron and gasoline permeated the air, and the stench of mako vapor was so much more intense here. So wretchedly pungent that I could taste it. 

          If the smell was this bad so high up the building, I could only imagine how much worse it would be on the ground floor. There was no fresh air here. Not by my standards, in any case. Nor by those of anyone who had ever lived beyond the walls of Midgar, I imagined. It made me physically ill, and the nausea I’d managed to ignore in the air would now be much harder to contain. But there was no time or place to get sick, as the crew rushed us offboard and away from the landing zone to make room for the next transport in the fleet.

          Before I knew it, I was packed on a large service-elevator, shoulder-to-shoulder with dozens of other recruits, while some high-ranking official that I couldn’t see shouted over our heads.

          “Welcome to Midgar, gentlemen.” he shouted over the elevator’s mechanical whirring. “Here, we begin the onboarding process. By day’s end, you will be familiar with who we are, what we stand for here at Shinra, and more importantly, your purpose in it all. You will gain a basic understanding of our facilities and the surrounding infrastructure. You will be outfitted with your uniform and basic kit, and assigned your spot in our training facility barracks.

          “For now, we will begin with introductions and orientation at the Public Security presentation hall on floor 14. Upon its conclusion, each man here is to report to the medical center on floor 21 for preliminary physicals and healthcare database registration. Afterward, you will report to workforce accounting on floor 13, where you will then receive an overview of your benefits and access credentials to your financial compensation. 

          “Training will begin at 0400 hours, bright and early, at the west wing C-13 parade ground. Between the end of orientation and then, you are off-duty and free to do as you will. But I would advise you, gentlemen, to spend your time wisely. There will be zero tolerance for slackers and layabouts in this regimen, as you will quickly and harshly discover.”

          Conveniently, the elevator doors opened just as the official, whoever he was, finished his speech. I wondered how many times a day he must have said it, if he’d rehearsed it to time it so well. Any sort of inane, irrelevant thought with which I could busy my mind. Anything to help me stave off the nausea, now aggravated by the concentrated body odor around me in addition to the stench of mako.

          I never saw that official’s face, as I was one of the shortest in attendance, blinded by a forest of heads and shoulders. Nor did I see it coming when an arm grabbed me and pulled me from the crowd.

          “Welcome to the big city, Muffin Man!” Luke enthusiastically shouted. 

          He laughed and winced in equal measure as I slugged him repeatedly on the arm I’d already bruised at Junon. Clearly, he’d been waiting there for me. Likely, for quite some time, I figured. His group definitely arrived long before ours, and he would have had no idea when I’d walk through those doors. He was ecstatic to see me, like a puppy with separation anxiety.

        “Stop calling me that.” I growled through an involuntary chuckle. “I hate it here. It stinks.”

        “Aw, don’t be like that.” he blithely reproved. “This is the land of opportunity, yeah? Glitz and glam, and all that. All kinds o’ fun to be had hereabouts. We’ll have a blast, you and me! Drinks, and shows, and girls, and… Oh, right. Muffin Gir… I mean, Tifa. Heh. Sorry.”

        I could hardly hear him over the ringing in my ears and the churning in my stomach. I rolled my eyes.

        “Whatever, man.” I retched. “Let’s just get this stupid orientation thing over with. The sooner I can get to bed, the better. I barely survived the trip.”

          “Still all stove up, huh?” Luke sighed. “A’right, then… Let’s get goin’.” He tried to get me to lean on his shoulder, but I shoved him. I wasn’t that pathetic, and I didn’t intend to be seen as such by the others after all I’d done to earn their respect.

          Once we managed to hobble to our seats in the presentation hall, twenty rows and four-hundred men deep, we spent the next hour being inundated with images of corporate and military propaganda. Minimally informative, mostly fanfare about “the wonders of mako power” and “Shinra pride”. Praising our bravery as “the first line of defense against domestic threats”, lionizing the Shinra war machine and, of course, exalting President Shinra himself. 

          Loud, obnoxious, and very insistent on its own brand of righteousness. All splashed in dramatic special effects across massive, vibrant displays. The perfect means of brainwashing for a room full of technological rubes who had never seen anything more advanced than second-hand farm equipment. I, having been perfectly content simply having the chance to sit down, left that room with a splitting headache from all the flashing lights and noise. Needless to say, I wasn’t terribly moved by their egregious show of patriotism.

          It was a long, arduous process establishing my roots at Shinra headquarters. Poking and prodding, weighing and measuring by compassionless doctors. Hours of tests and scans in sterile rooms, surrounded by mysterious and dreadful medical equipment. They told me I was in great shape, apart from their concern over my debilitating motion sickness. But if I’m honest, the experience gave me cold feet about the SOLDIER enhancement surgery I would inevitably have to endure. I couldn’t help but imagine the gruesome process and the pain involved.

          It left me feeling dizzy. And when I finally made my way to the accounting department, that made life sorely inconvenient. It was difficult to wrap my head around their confounding math and legalese when I could hardly see straight. The no-nonsense clerk at the counter panned across several windows and monitors, demonstrating spreadsheets and a wall of numbers I didn’t understand. I could hardly keep up. I had never even seen a computer before, and that was overwhelming enough, never mind all I had already been through.

          She stopped at regular intervals to ask me if I had any questions, however impatiently. And I did. Lots of them. But I kept them to myself, too embarrassed to say. I was afraid of seeming lesser for my lack of education. In hindsight, they likely didn’t expect much understanding from a thirteen-year-old kid, anyway. It didn’t really matter. They could have been speaking to an infant, and they’d have handled it the same way. In the end, I left with a handful of cards and a head full of confusion.

          The fact was, to them, their disclosure was more important than my understanding. What I did with my pay and benefits was my own business. Just like the official who arrived at my home in Nibelheim, they were only telling me these things to fulfill their own legal obligations, irrespective of my comprehension or welfare. Anyone in their employ, no matter how young, was presumed a capable adult with the foresight, agency, and wherewithal to manage his or her own life. They had neither the time nor the inclination to hold the hand of an inept child.

          That same lack of accommodation followed us into the outfitting process, and became evident the moment I saw my issued uniform. Clearly recycled, if relatively well-maintained, but large and ungainly for my small stature. Evidently, having no money in the budget for children’s outfitting, they chose to adopt the same pragmatic “you’ll grow into it” policy as any other parent of limited means.

          The floor numbers the official had given us on the elevator, which were already difficult enough to remember as I waded through the sickness, were not enough to make navigating this corporate labyrinth any easier. Every hallway looked the same to me, and the signs on each floor didn’t really help, either. I’d been yelled at a number of times for wandering into restricted areas before I finally decided to wait for another from my group, someone older and more worldly, and follow them to find the shuttles to the training barracks.

        All the while, Luke stayed close on my heels, completely unfazed by the stress of it all. Ceaselessly jabbering in my ear about the various vices on which he intended to piss away his hard-earned pay. I wondered how long it would take him to remember his obligation to his family, and if I would have to play the role of his mother and remind him to spend like he had some common sense. Sometimes, his devil-may-care attitude was enough to make me wonder if I’d have to make him eat his vegetables and bathe.

          He was a pain in my ass, and I could already tell that he was going to make life harder than it needed to be. But he cared about me, and he’d gone to great lengths to show as much. Even if not always particularly helpful, I’d never had a more loyal friend in my life. And he very much was a friend, pain in the ass or not. So, reluctantly, I cared about him, too. I would not let him be the engine of his own destruction.

          When we finally arrived at the barracks, I had little time or energy to take in my surroundings. For the unhomely walls, the high ceiling, the bleach white tiling, and the harsh, fluorescent lights, all I could see were the bunks. Dozens of them in this unit alone, and I wandered straight to the nearest one without a lock on its footlocker. Without the energy to climb, I flopped across the bottom bunk as my armload of essential gear flopped out of my arms in a sloppy pile.

        “Uuuuuuuggghh….” I groaned, head lolling over the opposite edge of the bed. 

          Luke took a seat, bouncing like a child’s first night at a summer camp and nearly making me lose my lunch. With one arm fighting against my paralyzed body, I blindly batted at the air behind me in search of his neck, fully intending to throttle him.

        “Man, Cloud… And here I was, thinking you’d got back on your feet. I thought you’da snapped out’n it once ya’ had some dry land to walk on. Y’ain’t gonna be a dried out fish when the sarge comes a’hollerin’ tomorrow mornin’, are ya? Floppin’ and gaspin’, and all…” he teased.

        “Shut up, dammit…” I moaned, muffled by the blanket beneath my face. “I just need some sleep. I’ll be fine.”

        I hoped I would be, or I was in for a rough awakening and an even rougher start.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          "Dear Tifa,

          Training is hard. It's making me stronger, I think, but Luke keeps getting me in trouble. I've seen the Shinra building, and I don't like it much. It's easy to get lost, and people are rude. I hope the rest of the city isn’t like this. I miss our river and our tree. I hope you're okay, and that you're happy.

          Take care, 

          - Cloud"

——————

          In the wee hours, silence had settled over the barracks. The kind of silence that was anything but quiet. Raindrops from a passing storm pattered over the vaulted, metal roof. Every recruit’s uncomfortable sigh and cough, as they struggled to adjust, became a shallow, menacing echo. We weren’t even allowed the comfort of darkness. Even with the ceiling lights turned off, the distant city lights spilling through the high windows were enough to make us aware of the room’s industrial trappings. Every bare pipe and metal panel, an ugly reminder that this place wasn’t home.

          Despite my exhaustion, I didn’t sleep well that night. Mercifully, lying still for a few hours was enough to mostly abate the nausea, but the mental strain still kept me awake. I had reached the point of no return, miles deep in the strangest, most terrifying place I’d ever known. Thrown into a life for which I could have never been adequately prepared, regardless of my mother’s warnings. And I had no one to see me through it, except for another boy from the country who would be even more lost than I was.

        Apart from the anxiety, as always, there was Luke. Now lying above me on a mattress housed in a creaky, metal frame. When he wasn’t snoring, he was tossing and turning. When he wasn’t tossing and turning, he was lying awake and making it my problem.

          “Psst… Hey, Cloud…”

          I ignored him.

          “Hey… psst…” he pestered.

        “What, for god’s sake?!” I snapped, and was immediately told to shut up by some unseen someone.

          “Sorry!” I shout-whispered. “What?” I growled.

        “Y’think… y’think the sarge’ll be friendly, like? Like, maybe he’d take it easy on us younger guys?”

          I paused, stunned by the stupidity of his question. But I knew he was anxious, and talking was how he coped. His head would explode if he had to stay quiet all night. I wanted to humor him, but I didn’t want to give him false hope. And I certainly didn’t want to encourage him to be cavalier with our superiors.

          “I wouldn’t count on it.” I whispered.

          “But we’re kids, right? By how most figure it, anyhow. What kinda grown man picks on a bunch o’ kids?” I could hear his rattled nerves in his voice.

          “The kind who wants to train soldiers. You’ve seen how they’ve treated us so far. I don’t think they plan to babysit us. Go to sleep.”

          “Nah…” he dismissed. “Make a man laugh, and ya’ make a friend. It worked on your grumpy ass, din’ it?”

          I tilted my head out, aghast at the suggestion, and saw him staring down at me with a smug grin plastered across his face.

          “Luke, what the hell are you talking about? I wanna kill you on a regular basis.” I impatiently corrected him. “Please, don’t do anything stupid.”

          He only chuckled, silent for the rest of the night. It worried me, and I dreaded the consequences yet to come.

        When the wake-up call came, I was actually glad that I didn’t sleep. Or, at least, that I wasn’t asleep at the time. It was at 3:30 in the morning, and it wasn’t exactly gentle. The fluorescent lights flickered to life without warning. Then, while my eyes still ached, the PA system blared with a loud, droning alarm and an announcement in an inhospitable, mechanical voice:

NOTICE: THE TIME IS 0330. PLATOON ALPHA-325, REPORT TO PARADE GROUND C-13, WEST WING, AT 0400 IN PT GEAR.

          The message repeated four times, in ear-splitting succession, before I could hear myself think. As I begrudgingly made the bed and braced myself for whatever the day would bring, Luke came tumbling ungracefully from the top bunk.

          “Man alive,” he groaned, “I’d take the rooster over that racket any day. At least that noisy ball o’ feathers waits for the damn sun to show its face.”

          “Yeah, a warning would have been nice.” I muttered. “Wouldn’t have been so bad if SOMEONE had let me sleep, though.”

          “Aw, come off it.” Luke chuckled, annoyingly chipper for one so groggy. “My rugged voice is the best lullaby ya’ could ask fer, and y’know it.”

        “Better than your snoring, anyway.” I tutted. Luke scoffed dismissively. 

          A few minutes later, well before most of us had the chance to make our bunks or dress,  our personal hell of the next four months officially began. A very aggressive uniform all but kicked in the entrance double doors. A large, imposing, musclebound man of salt-and-pepper hair, clean-shaven in a pressed combat utility uniform much like ours.

          “Platoon Alpha-325, attention!” he shouted. Impressively, louder and more jarring than the alarm that woke us.

          Immediately, everyone fell in line at the foot of their bunks, standing as straight and presentable as one possibly could while still in their boxers. Trying to mask every weakness, yet vulnerable through the fear in their eyes. The orientation films had given us a general rundown of the process of basic training, but no real details on our individual treatment. Still, we’d all heard the stories. We’d all met veterans at one point or another in our lives, even if only on the road to Midgar. And therein lay our apprehension.

          Silence again. The silence of a sunless morning, of the hard and cold structures around us enclosing our discomfort and displacement, sharply disturbed by the clopping footsteps of his leather jackboots. With each step he took closer to me, my skin grew colder. As strong and composed as I tried to appear, I hadn’t felt this fragile or insecure since Shinra’s arrival at my home in Nibelheim. Luke, however, remained obliviously unaffected. Standing as stiffly as the rest of us, but with a subtle smirk that betrayed his complete ignorance and the lack of anxiety he should have felt. That worried me more than my own impending abuse.

          “My name…” he began in a menacingly hushed tone, “is Sergeant Darius Patton Burke.” 

          He enunciated his every name, punctuating each with a pause to cement it in our collective memory. An unspoken warning to never forget, or face the consequences. Instinctively, we avoided eye contact as he slowly walked the aisle between us, scanning each of our faces.

          “Here, in this place, you have no names.” he continued. “Names are earned. Names belong to men, and I don’t see a single, solitary man among you. In my presence, only men have the right to speak. You do not speak unless spoken to. And when I speak to you, everything you say to me better start and end with ‘sir’. Do I make myself clear?”

          He hadn’t raised his voice yet. He didn’t need to. Even his cold brand of calm left us frozen in terror, to the point of speechlessness. Even though we knew he expected a response, not one of us could summon the courage to speak up. No one wanted to be the first to make a sound. If there was one warning we’d all heard many times, a warning we’d taken to heart, it was simply this: the nail that stands out gets hammered down. And this was a man who would be looking for any nail standing a hair’s width above the rest.

        After no more than three seconds of silence, Sgt. Burke’s patience reached its limits.

        “I can’t hear you! Do I make myself clear?!” he repeated, shouting a crack of thunder that shot down my spine. I flinched, and I definitely wasn’t the only one.

          “Sir, yes, sir!” we all replied, stammering and shamefully out of sync.

          “Again, like you’ve got a pair!” he growled.

          “Sir, yes, sir!” Louder, clearer, and in sync. Fear inspired discipline, and Sgt. Burke was a man to be feared.

        “That’s right.” he said, with an immediate and disturbing return to calm. “Make no mistake, boys. For the next four months, you will undergo pressure and pain like you’ve never experienced before. You are not men, but you are not children. And I am not your mother. Do not come to me for comfort. Do not expect my sympathy. 

          “If you hear only a single thing I’m saying to you this morning, let it be this: I will make you men worthy of the names you left at those doors, or I will break you and send you home ashamed to wear them. That’s my job. Your job is to hate me. Enough to prove me wrong and earn my respect, or prove me right and earn my size twelve boot up your ass. Do you hear me?!”

        “Sir, yes, sir!”

          Then, as we all expected, he spent the rest of that wake-up call berating and belittling us one at a time. Picking out our every closely-guarded insecurity and weaponizing them against us. A more efficient and effective bully, I have never seen. The majority of us had the sense to remain quiet and still, and pray our turn never came. Luke, on the other hand, was enjoying the show. The smirk on his face was growing by the second, and he was stifling a laugh. Apparently, he enjoyed a good roast.

        “Oh, god, please don’t, Luke. Please keep your mouth shut.” I whispered.

          “I’m gonna make you carry around a potted plant, so you can replace the oxygen you insist on wasting!” Sgt. Burke shouted from far down the line.

          That broke him. He snorted. Long and loud. To his credit, he didn’t laugh. But it was too late. He successfully drew Sgt. Burke’s ironsights right to his clueless face.

        “What was that? What the hell was that?!” Sgt. Burke shouted, stomping directly for us. Every hair on my neck stood on end as he shoved his face inches from Luke’s.

          “Did I say something funny?” he menacingly droned, scanning Luke from head to toe and pausing on his name tag. “Do I amuse you, recruit 5475?”

          “Wellsir, I—”

          “What the hell did you just say?!” Sgt. Burke roared.

        “Er… I mean… Sir, I jus’ thought it was clever, sir! Y’see, I ‘preciate a good joke, and—”

          My thoughts hummed like a mantra, fearing for Luke’s safety. Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up. Shut the hell up, Luke. Please, for the love of god, shut up.

          Before Luke could speak another word, he received a vicious fist to the ribs. Not nearly as hard as Sgt. Burke could have delivered, but more than enough to silence him and double him over in pain. We’d been assured in orientation that basic training personnel had a hands-off, non-violent approach to their regimen. I’d expected the real world wouldn’t work that way, but I didn’t expect confirmation this soon or this brutally. And it was immediately clear that escalation would only make things worse. Better to fall in line and roll with the punches, so to speak.

          “I am not your personal clown, you little hick!” Burke shouted as Luke writhed, coughed, and sputtered. “When I am speaking, you shut the fuck up until told to speak! I’m not in the habit of repeating myself! Consider this your first and last warning!”

        “...Sir…ugh…sir… yessir…” Luke barely managed to articulate, shakily getting to his feet.

        “Fucking idiot…” I whispered, apparently aloud, through my teeth and below my breath. Just loud enough to draw attention to myself.

        “Who said that?” Burke cartoonishly asked, placing his hand over his brow as he mockingly looked over my head and into the distance. “Oh, recruit 2643! Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

        ‘Ah,’ I thought, ‘because I’m short. So, this is gonna be his running joke for me. I should’ve figured.’ Of course, I kept it to myself and remained silent.

        “Would you mind speaking up? I didn’t quite catch that.” he provoked.

        “Sir, no, sir! It won’t happen again, sir!” I declared. Loud and clear, as instructed.

        “I heard about you, recruit. Saved some of these worthless lives from a pack of land worms, by the sound of it. Think you’re some kinda hero?”

        “Sir, no, sir! I just did what was right, sir!” At this point, I was shaking.

        “So, you like doing the right thing, huh? Well, from now on, the only right thing is what I say. You do what I say. You got that? Let your dipshit friend here be an example of what happens when you don’t.”

        “Sir, yes, sir! Th-thank you, sir!” I stuttered. My nerves were reaching their limit, and I dreaded every second he lingered. The man towered over me, he could have crushed me like a bug. I wasn’t as big or strong as Luke, and I shuddered to think of what one of those punches would do to my insides.

        As he walked away, I involuntarily let out a very audible sigh of relief. That was the wrong thing to do. Next I knew, Luke and I were face down on the cold floor, doing one hundred push-ups. Made to loudly declare our ineptitude and worthlessness after each and every one.

        We were not off to a good start.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          We were immediately launched into routine. After our morning ridicule, which would thankfully come as earned and at random rather than on a daily basis, we began our day at the PT yard. Fortunately, we learned that this was an exceptionally early morning, allowing for time to tour the local facilities and receive an overview of the daily schedule. Life, it turned out, would be confined to this cluster of buildings and simulation zones. 

          To us, until we “earned our names” and graduated, this would be the extent of Midgar that we would personally know. And our every moment would be lived on a tight and rigid schedule. Mornings were for physical training. Basic exercises, hikes, runs, weight training, obstacle courses; all things at which Luke and I excelled, between his strenuous farm life and my self-imposed hardship on Mt. Nibel.

          Then came breakfast, followed by a varying curriculum of skills and knowledge. Classroom education on Midgar history, zoning, infrastructure, geography, and Shinra facilities. Hierarchy, protocol, and military strategy. Though not exactly the head of my class, I held my own. Luke struggled, but with a healthy dose of nagging, I managed to get him through it without Burke killing him.

          Outside the classroom, we learned weapon systems. Dismantling, assembly, maintenance, cleaning, and Luke’s absolute favorite, the firing range. Where he frequently made me a nervous wreck with his casual disregard for safety. When he insisted that firing an automatic grenade launcher with high-yield incendiary rounds would be “just like shooting cans with pa’ back on the farm”, I fully expected to be blown to bits.

          Burke was true to his word. It was tough, it was grueling, and it did break a number of us. But it wasn’t anything I couldn’t endure for her. No worse than my toughest days on the mountain, and more structured. Truthfully, the hardest days were those that Luke chose to make himself an inconvenience. But, in a strange way, those may have actually been the best days, too. They kept things interesting, and presented opportunities to talk and think, even if only about what an idiot he was.

          It was always Luke who screwed up in one way or another, and he almost always took me down with him. Sometimes because he made me laugh, sometimes because he managed to actually rope me into his mishaps. Sometimes, it was just because I had the misfortune of standing near him when he pissed off Burke. And the punishments were always absurd.

          We’d heard tales of recruits who were made to clean the floors with toothbrushes. That was true. We found out because, one morning, Luke thought it would be funny to wear his pants backwards after Burke told him it was a wonder he could get dressed by himself in the morning. He swore he didn’t do it on purpose. I asked how he didn’t figure it out when he had to zip them from the back. He laughed, and I threatened to scrub his molars with my brush after our little chore was complete.

        Another day, Luke forgot his tactical shovel when we were learning to build foxholes and trenches. We spent the rest of that day, and all of that night, carrying an enormous pile of loose dirt from one end of the field to the other one pocketful at a time. A week later, we had to cut that same field’s grass with scissors because, in his neverending quest to make Burke laugh, Luke thought it would be wise to finish one of his degrading insults with his own clever punchline. While it earned him a momentary laugh from the other recruits, it earned us hours upon hours of hard labor. 

          Every last fiasco we faced was his fault, and every punishment began with the same verbal exchange.

          “You’re dumb as hell, you know that?” I would say.

          “Yeah… I know… Sorry…” he would respond. Then, silence for at least a number of minutes.

          “You know,” he chimed, carefully eyeballing his next cut with one eye closed and a protruding tongue. Everything was a damn joke to him. I rolled my eyes. “I been sayin’ that I wish I had me a girl who could bake like Muffin Girl Tifa. I reckon I might, after all, now that I think on it.”

          I looked over my shoulder at him with genuine curiosity, but I wasn’t done jabbing him for this most recent, insane chore.

          “You? Thinking? Like, with your brain, you mean? That’s a new one.” I teased.

          “Man, shut up…” he scoffed. “Anyways… Since I’s a tyke, ‘bout knee-high to a grasshopper, there’s this girl from the next farm over come runnin’ over yonder past me and Lyd’s favorite hill. The one with all the flowers, ‘n such, ‘member? Lil’ red-headed thing ‘bout my age, maybe a bit younger. She’d always stare at me. Sorta creeped me out, like.”

          “Uh-huh…” I drolly encouraged. I was quite interested. Then again, any story to while away the hours was welcome whenever this happened. And he always took full advantage of it.

          “Well, so… one day, I wave at ‘er, right? I’m a friendly sort, y’know how I am. And she waves back. One o’ them dainty, finger-fluttery waves that girls do sometimes, when they’s shy. Then she scampers off. Lyd noticed, too. And she says to me, she says, ‘Hey, I think she’s sweet on ya’, Luke.’ P’shaw, I says. Ain’t nothin’ fer it, ‘less’n she at least come and say hello.”

          “That’s your girl, huh?” I scoffed. “Some stranger across the way you never said a word to? Whatever.”

          “Well, hol’ on, now… So, all that summer, I see her about once a week ‘er so. Then, maybe once every couple days. Come to be that I see her atop that hill most every day ‘afore long, a’wavin’ and a’gigglin’, and whatnot. Even in the harvest time, with me an’ pa’ pullin’ up the turnips and collards, she’d be up there crunchin’ in the leaves in her lil’ wool sweater, just a’waitin’ for me to say hello. ‘Course, pa’ notices, and he’s a joker like me. Pokin’ me and teasin’ ‘bout my ‘girlfriend’ ‘til I turn red.”

          “Gee, I wonder what that’s like…” I sarcastically sneered. He acted like he didn’t hear me.

          “Well,” he continued, “didn’t nothin’ come of it ‘til ‘bout a week after Lydia… well, you know… She shows up at our door one afternoon, carryin’ this lopsided-lookin’ loaf o’ bread. Some kinda butter cream stuff on it; s’pretty tasty. Nothin’ like yer Tifa’s magic, mind. But good eatin’ all the same.

          “Since I’s the one answered the door, I finally got a good look at ‘er. And lemme tell ya… I felt a lil’ somethin’, I think. Kinda like ya’ said ya’ had a thing for Muffin Girl way back. She’s purty. Freckle-faced in a cute kinda way, with the greenest eyes you ever seen. Kinda homely. Not ‘homely’ like ugly, I mean. Like… I dunno what’s yer word fer it, but… kinda like ya’ could see her bein’ a wife someday, y’know?”

          By then, the time felt like it was melting away. I’d lost count of my cuts, couldn’t feel the pain in my back. I could see it exactly as he described it, and remembered how I felt that first day I met Tifa. Her playing in her garden. That first smile she gave me while she slapped the keys on their piano, and how I couldn’t stop looking at her. I was glad he had someone like that, too.

          “So, she bats them purty ‘lashes at me, and she says, ‘Sorry ‘bout yer sister. I wish I’da been brave enough to say hello ‘afore all this. I’m Lyla.’ Lyla, she says. Awful close to ‘Lydia’, don’tcha think? I ain’t much for talk o’ destiny, or fate, or whatever ya’ wanna call it, but… I mean, she didn’t know us from Adam, ‘cept our little hellos and g’byes. Didn’t know Lydia’s name, neither, so she’da never understood the look on my face. And I dunno how I did look at ‘er, but she sorta turned pink, like… Then she ran away again, shy thing as she was.”

          “Huh…” I mused. “I, uh… I mean, did anything else happen?” I couldn’t even pretend to tease him now. I was just fascinated. I wanted to hear more.

          “Nah…  Well, she’d come by now and again with some new kinda treat she cooked up with her ma’. Try’na be neighborly with the fam’ly for our loss, y’know.? But, I think she volunteered to come on ‘er own. Didn’t say much to me, but she always looked at me a special kinda way. Sorta wish I’da said somethin’ myself. Stupid me, I didn’t even tell her my name ‘til next I seen’t her. Didn’t think too much of it then, cuz I’s never the thinkin’ type, like ya’ say. But… y’think… maybe she’s a’waitin’ for me, too, like?”

          There wasn’t a joking tone in a single word he said by then. He seemed sincere and genuinely hopeful. I couldn’t stop smiling. I hated myself for liking him most days. But I did, and that made me happy. 

          “Sure, man. Definitely.” I assured him, not sarcastic in the least. And I truly hoped she was. I hoped I’d get to introduce Tifa to them one day, and maybe we could have fun on that hill he told me about. Tifa did love flowers, after all. Sometimes, I thought Luke got us in trouble like this on purpose, just so we could have these little chats. 

          And sometimes… I didn’t mind.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          Despite all the trouble Luke caused me, moments like that were a welcome distraction. Even with the sore muscles, the headaches, and the frustration, I can definitely say making it through basic training would have been much more difficult without him. It would have left me too much time to myself, living in my own head.

          Even with Luke’s misadventures occupying my waking hours, I’m ashamed to say, I still cried myself to sleep many of those nights. As silently as I could, sometimes while humming Tifa’s private lullaby, even when someone yelled at me for it. At the end of the day, it wouldn’t have mattered where I was or how I was doing. It wouldn’t have mattered how I was treated, whether I was loved or hated. There was a hole in my heart, and no distraction was ever going to be enough to fill it.

          I missed Tifa. 

          Her safety mattered to me enough to live without her, and making something of myself for her sake was worth the heartache. But she was my peace. My happiness. I’d spent my childhood before her feeling nothing, and life didn’t become interesting or worth my emotional investment until I met her. That had never changed, and without her, it was hard to feel much of anything. Whether by her side, or only to watch her from afar, I needed her in my life.

          In this, the grueling hours of PT and classroom cramming were a mercy. It kept me distracted. Luke mostly filled the rest of any given day, either through some other stupid punishment I had to endure on his behalf, or simply by talking my ear off. Lights out was when my pain made itself known, trapped with my own mind and nothing to silence it. Her face, her eyes, her smile, her tears, her pain, her laugh… and the clattering silence around me. Creaking bed frames, coughs, snores, leaky pipes, and distant traffic. Silence too loud for me to sleep, and the agonizing absence of her music.

          My one comfort, as it had been since before I left home, was Tifa’s starfish patch. Every night, I held it over my heart and rubbed it between my fingers. Sometimes, I’d hold it to my lips, or fall asleep holding it under my cheek. With all the meat-headed, masculine energy and the deliberate suppression of emotion around me, I admit, it felt pathetic. But the soothing sensation of its soft, smooth surface was the one tangible reminder of why all of this hardship was necessary. It was all I had, and I couldn’t live without it.

          Because of that, there was one morning I would never forget. A day when I had never been more grateful to have a friend looking out for me.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          “Dear TIfa,

          Luke saved my skin today. I don’t know what I’d do without him. I don’t think I really realized just how much I appreciated him until now. He may be a loudmouthed idiot, and a complete pain in the ass, but he’s the best friend a guy could have in this place. I only wish the others appreciated him more. I hope you can meet him someday.

          I miss you, and I think of you every night. I hope you’re thinking of me, too.

          - Cloud”

——————

          A shakedown. 

          That’s what they called it. Without warning, only a couple of minutes after the wake-up call. We barely had time to rub the sleep from our eyes before Burke and a crew of unfamiliar personnel came crashing through the door with great fanfare. Shouting at us, shoving us, and tearing apart our bunks and belongings.

          I honestly don’t know why they ever allowed us to bring personal belongings into this place at all. We hadn’t been there for more than a day or two before just about everything we owned was confiscated, as they laid down rules about “regulation items” and “contraband”. For the most part, anything that wasn’t issued to us by the company was subject to confiscation. 

          Fortunately, personal journals and correspondence were an exception. Which meant my letters to Tifa, which I still hadn’t the courage to send, were safe. The starfish patch, however, was not an exception, and I knew that. I’d successfully hidden it during the initial enforcement of the contraband policy, and I’d managed to keep it a secret every day since. But I didn’t expect this. I don’t think any of us did.

          In the chaos of blankets, clothing, and various personal effects flying through the air, more than a few of us were caught holding onto something we weren’t supposed to. Entertainment items like books and magazines. A couple of idiots were hiding old, stale food from the mess hall. And a few had sentimental items. Jewelry, photos, even a pressed flower in a book of poetry. That particular item belonged to a hard ass recruit nobody would have ever suspected.

          And, of course… my precious patch.

          I watched with bated breath as the man rifling through my things found it beneath my mattress and presented it to Burke. I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as he approached, waving it in my face.

          “What the hell is this?” Burke demanded in a menacing whisper.

          “I-I… I…” I stammered. 

          I didn’t know what to say for myself, but I didn’t care to explain. He’d never understand, and even if he did, he wouldn’t care. If anything, he’d use it against me somehow. I wanted to beg. I wanted to cry.

          “I asked you a question, 2643! You have precisely three seconds to explain yourself before I make you sorry you were ever born!”

          I couldn’t speak. I flinched, all but certain he was going to hit me. But then…

          “Sir, it’s mine, sir!” Luke shouted. I gasped. Immediately, Burke’s attention and anger redirected.

          “You wanna repeat that, you shit-kicking yokel?” He growled.

          “Sir, I miss my mama, sir! It helps me sleep, sir!” Luke unapologetically replied, with no fear for the consequences.

          Why was he doing this? It wasn’t his, so why should he have to suffer?

          “You miss your mama?!” Burke taunted. “We’re raising men here, 5475, not babies! What else you got in there? A bottle? A rattle? A teddy bear?”

          “Sir, no, sir!” Luke replied, unfazed.

          After an expected punch to the ribs, Burke immediately sentenced Luke to ten laps around the mile-long running track encircling the parade ground. On his hands and knees, he demanded, since “babies can’t walk”. In the meantime, he made Luke stand there in front of everyone with his thumb in his mouth, making an example of him as he gave a speech about what a military man was and was not supposed to be.

          I was in shock. Struck with another feeling I didn’t understand, somewhere between embarrassment, shame, and empathy. Ten laps, a painful ordeal that was going to rip his knees and palms to shreds, all because of me. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he was commanded to crawl another five when he accidentally bumped into Burke on the way out the door.

          He just smiled at me as he passed, and I stared at him, stunned and mortified. I could barely breathe. I lowered my eyes, staring at my shaking hands with shame while he marched toward a cruel punishment he wouldn’t soon forget.

          I didn’t see him again until later that night, when he hobbled into the mess hall. Filthy, exhausted, and flopping into his seat across from me as his tray rattled and sloshed. His head lolled over his food. He grabbed his biscuit and took a bite, huffing and grunting with every motion of his jaw. I saw his hands. Bloody and tattered, nails cracked and caked with dirt.

          I remained silent for what felt like an eternity, expecting him to say something. He just sat there, eating his biscuit one dry bite at a time, chewing and smacking open-mouthed.

          “Why…?” I finally asked, my speech warbling and cracking. I was on the verge of tears, angry and touched at the same time.

          “...Why what…?” he replied with a pause, still chewing and audibly annoyed, staring emptily into the middle distance.

          “WHY DID YOU DO THAT?!” I shouted, not caring for the spectacle I was causing. Luke just waved his hand at me, a gesture telling me to calm down.

        “Take it easy, Muffin Man. I’m fine. I got worse from sowin’ seed last year when the tractor was broke down. Same fine spring weather, and e’rything. Weren’t so bad. Burke’ll hafta try harder’n that if he wanna break me.” he scoffed.

          I took my seat with a thud, feeling drained from the hours of guilt and worry.

          “It wasn’t yours, Luke. You didn’t screw up. You didn’t have to take the blame for me…” I lamented. I was too ashamed to look at him, but he was taking it in stride. Gulping his water with a smile on his face.

          “Oh, ‘at’s right… Here…” he said, sliding something across the table toward me. 

          The starfish patch… I was stunned.

          “Wha… how…?” I snatched it up and held it to my chest.

          “Well…” he moaned, hesitating, “...les’ just say… I done some things I ain’t proud of ‘afore I decided to come here and walk the straight n’ narrow. Crops was dryin’ up, weren’t no money to put food on the table, so… Well, I didn’t feel bad about it this time. Weren’t his, no how. So… I just lifted it outta his pocket. Worth the extra five miles, I reckon, if’n I could get it back for ya’.”

          I just stared at him, completely speechless. I don’t know what look I had on my face, but it apparently compelled him to justify his actions further.

          “Look…” he sighed, bobbing his head and rolling his eyes, “I… I didn’t wanna say nothin’, cuz yer a tough guy, an’ all… but… I don’t sleep all the time, neither. And I hear ya’ some nights, a’blubberin’ over that thing, and a’hummin’ yer song, an’ all… And I know it’s for yer Muffin Girl. Love’ll do that to a man, I know. I seen my pa’ like that once, when ma’ took sick and had’ta spend some time in town gettin’ well… I know ya’ need it, I know it’s important to ya’, so… That lil’ crawl around the yard hurt me a lot less than sleepin’ at night without that there binky would hurt you.”

          I was fighting tears, and losing the battle. He protected me. Like a big brother. I knew he cared, but not this much.

          “Yeah, but…” I began to weakly protest, but he cut me off.

        “Yer goin’ for SOLDIER, ain’tcha? T’wouldn’t do for ya’ to be lookin’ soft. You earned yer respect ‘afore we even got here, and I ain’t about ta’ let ya’ ruin it now. The way I sees it… whole platoon already thinks I’m a joke. Expects me to fuck up, and I don’t mind none. Long as they get a laugh here n’ there, makes the place a lil’ less doom n’ gloom. S’fine with me if they wanna call me ‘Baby Luke’, like I’m already hearin’. But you… you gotta be that girl’s hero, yeah? So, I’ll take the lumps this time, jus’... don’t go losin’ that damn thing again, alright? Hide it better, or somethin’.”

          With another long sigh, he dropped his biscuit on the plate. “I can’t even eat this… No appetite after all that, strange as it is. I’mma just report to Burke, get my earful of whatever he wants to say, then get me some shut-eye… I’ll see ya’ tomorrow, Cloud…”

          He hadn’t taken five steps away before I ran up behind him and hugged him with all my strength, silently crying into his back.

          “Thank you… I’m so sorry… thank you…” I whimpered. My eyes stung with bitter, regretful tears.

          “Alright, alright… That’s enough’a that, now.” he said flatly, breaking my grip. “Don’ want e’ryone gettin’ the wrong idea about you an’ me. You wanna thank me, just keep the hummin’ down to a dull roar tonight so’s I can sleep.”

          I couldn’t help but wonder how hard my life would have been if I’d have left home with one muffin instead of two. My opinion of him completely changed that day. I reflected on the way I’d treated him since I met him. All the times I’d yelled at him, hit him, insulted him… I’d treated him as a burden, however willfully bearing it. On some level, I’d thought I was better than him. I was ashamed of myself.

          I’d never take him for granted again, and I’d spend every minute of our training cutting grass if it meant I could do it beside him.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

          “Dear Tifa,

          I think I’ve grown a little bit. I don’t know what’s waiting for me outside this camp, but I’m not afraid. I won’t be doing it alone. Luke and I will look after each other. I’ll be okay. It’ll be a while, but I’ll make it in SOLDIER. And I’ll keep my promise. I’ll come back for you.

          Yours always,

          - Cloud”

——————

          After two months of training, life should have been more livable. Not comfortable, obviously, but no more unpleasant surprises. We had adapted to the routine. Luke didn’t screw up quite as much anymore, and whenever he did, I went out of my way to make sure I was a part of it. I’d gotten used to the punishments, however harsh or humiliating. He’d been there for me in my greatest times of need. The least I could do was be there for him, too.

        Still, he found himself in trouble with Burke far more than anyone else, and the rest of the platoon had always thought less of him for it. He’d said he knew he was a joke to everyone here, and that he was fine with it. He said it as though he were performing a service. Said he was happy to receive their ridicule, as long as the laughs he provided made life a little easier for everyone. Still, as kind as it was, it was hurting him. It worried me.

          After a while, it became clear that he had his limits. Ordinarily, he had no problem with anyone unless they had personally done him wrong. Words were just words, he’d said, and he wore their degrading names with a smile. But it was wearing him down. Over time, he stopped laughing, and that smile began to weaken. He grew distant. Distracted, and visibly forlorn. He’d had enough of being insulted and underestimated.

        Had I been able to see myself in the worst days of Emilio’s bullying back in Nibelheim, I’m certain I would have had that same look, and I imagined Tifa must have felt much the same as I did now. But compared to what Luke was going through, I had been blessed. Tifa’s music had soothed me, even in her absence. Even across the rift that had grown between us, it reached me and mended my heart. Even now, without her, I had those pleasant memories to calm me at the worst of times.

          I could do nothing for Luke. I didn’t have her beautiful heart or her creativity, and I had no means of reaching him the same way. The best I could do was to put myself between him and the constant assault on his self-esteem, or bear it with him when I couldn’t. So, that’s what I did. Even when it put me in horrible danger, even when it meant new aches and pains on a regular basis, I dedicated myself to seeing him graduate with me. To see him survive this place with that kind spirit of his intact.

          Burke had called Luke every name in the book, but his favorite was to pick on him for his rural upbringing. He insulted him for his less than impressive education, and what he perceived as his limited intelligence. Anything to make him feel lesser. Anything to make him feel small and alone, cutting deeper than was necessary. I didn’t know if it was because Luke had frustrated him so often, or because he always seemed to take discipline with a smile, but it wasn’t about stress training or mental conditioning anymore. For whatever reason, Burke hated him and genuinely meant to hurt him.

          I couldn’t take it anymore. For the first time since Emilio’s bullying had reached a head, I lost control. During one morning inspection, as usual, Burke was digging into Luke and me for one thing or another. I couldn’t keep track anymore. I don’t know what Luke said or did. Maybe nothing at all; Burke simply might have disliked the expression on his face. Whatever the case, he would suffer another battery of unrestrained cruelty again that day. The worst yet. And even though we usually ran afoul of Burke’s mood together, he saved all of his animus for Luke.

          “I’ve had enough of your shit, you inbred piece of trash!” Burke viciously shouted while Luke knelt and nursed a black eye. 

          Burke had been working him over for the past five minutes. He was bleeding and covered in bruises. He may have even looked worse than I did after that monster nearly killed me on the mountain. But Burke just wouldn’t stop, and despite being surrounded by dozens, even with me at his side, Luke had no one to rescue him. Yet, somehow, he was still smiling, even after the worst beating I’d ever seen him take. 

          “I don’t know what short end of the genetic stick left you stuck with that permanent grin, but you will wipe it off of that slope-foreheaded face of yours, or I’ll be wiping what’s left of you from my boots in the tall grass!” Burke roared.

          Luke chuckled, sputtering through a swollen, bloody lip.

          “Luke, please...” I whined silently to myself. “Please, be quiet. You’re gonna end up in the infirmary. Please stop.”

          I saw a fury in Burke’s eyes that chilled me to my core. A seething hatred that no grown man could ever rationally hold for a fourteen-year-old boy. Whether intentionally or not, this was it. He was going to kill Luke, and everyone was just going to stand there and watch it happen. Luke may not have been the best student. He may have misbehaved, and yes, he could be terribly irritating much of the time. But he was a good person. He was positive, and he had a big heart. He just wanted to make people smile. 

          He didn’t deserve this.

          When Burke raised his foot with very real intent to stomp Luke’s head in, I snapped. Before I realized what I was doing, I rushed out of line and shoved him with every ounce of strength my muscles had to offer. I was still small, and I could barely move that monster an inch. But it was enough to stop him, and more than enough to put myself in the crosshairs. I didn’t care.

          “Stop it!” I shouted, indignant on Luke’s behalf. “How can you be so cruel?! Look what you’re doing to him!”

          Dead silence, not a word from the other recruits. Even Burke said nothing for a moment, stifled by my audacity.

          “2643, have you lost your damned mind?!”

          “My name is Cloud!” I snapped. 

          I no longer cared to live under his dehumanizing rule of namelessness, nor did I feel it mattered. Whether on my own two feet, or in a body bag, I was certain that I’d be leaving that place. At that moment, I would have been fine with either. If becoming a hero meant standing by silently while someone was beaten to death, let alone a dear friend to whom I owed so much, then I was content to fail. I had sought to protect Tifa, and moreover, protect her heart. 

          To let someone as good and kind as Luke suffer this way… I couldn’t imagine anything less worthy of her love.

          Before I even saw the blow coming, I was on my back and seeing spots. It didn’t silence me.

          “And his name… is Luke…” I grunted as I sat up. “He’s a person. A good person. I can’t let you do this to him anymore...”

          Burke huffed, somehow both amused and annoyed at my foolish bravado. “Being a ‘good person’ doesn’t make you useful on the battlefield, boy. Being a joker doesn’t save your life, or the lives of your comrades. And I’m sure it didn’t make you very useful on that farm, either. Did it, ‘Luke’?” he maliciously prodded, tilting his head to look over my shoulder.

          Luke still knelt there, bruised and bloodied, with barbs of resentment in his eyes. A look that betrayed a wound much deeper than the slow resignation that had overtaken his smile. A pain sharper than any of the blows or insults he had taken before. When Burke could not get to him personally, he decided to strike at the only place that truly mattered to him. A sacred and tender place.

          “Yes, that’s right.” Burke smugly continued over Luke’s gobsmacked silence. “I read your file. That pathetic farm. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Couldn’t cut it in the fields, so you turned to theft. Brought shame to your family, not that they had much to be proud of in the first place. You couldn’t live up to the man your father meant you to be. Couldn’t save that pitiful, dried up patch of dirt. And you thought this place could turn someone as worthless as you into a man? Heh. You couldn’t even save your own sister.”

          A tear streaked down Luke's frozen face. The first I’d ever seen from him.

          “That’s enough!” I shouted, prepared to attack Burke again, however futile.

          “You can’t even save your little friend here!” Burke exclaimed, overjoyed at his own malice. With a wicked grin, he lifted his boot over my head. He was going to stomp the life out of me, just as he meant to do to Luke.

          I flinched, and in that moment of darkness, I heard the sound of a violent tussle. Slamming, rattling, and growling as Luke tackled Burke to the floor with strength I never knew he had. When I looked up, Luke had him laid out in a savage choke hold, crushing his throat as he drooled and gagged, eyes turning red and struggling to pull himself free.

        “I gotcha, you blowhard sum’bitch! What’chu know ‘bout bein’ a man?! Pickin’ on a bunch of kids, thinkin’ yer so big and bad! You don’ know nothin’! Don’tchu talk about my family! Don’tchu talk about my baby sister! And you ain’t gonna do that to Cloud, you hear me?!” Luke raved through barely contained sobs. “I ain’t gonna lose no one else, you fuckin’ asshole! I ain’t gonna… I… I ain’t… I won’t let you… hurt… Cloud…”

          Luke couldn’t hold on anymore. Even through his rage, his strength waned when his heart finally shattered. Burke broke free, coughing and gasping for air as he stared with hard contempt. Luke just sat there, defeated, returning his glare in impotent fury. Red-faced and sobbing, crying all of the tears that had been trapped under that fragile smile for months. I helped him to his feet and stood between them, prepared to take whatever punishment was to come. 

          For the longest time, Burke didn’t move. He just stood there, considering us. I couldn’t read his expression, and I might have cracked under the tension had Luke not broken the silence.

          “What?” he sniffled. “You gonna hit me again? Kick me out of here, or somethin’? Jus’ get it over with… Don’t need no ‘shit-kicker rednecks’ like me ‘round here, anyhow, right?”

          A devious, satisfied smile slowly creased Burke’s face. “No, that would be a waste, now that you finally found your balls. Finally stopped acting like a damn fool and found that killer instinct. I like that. Show me more of that.” Burke genuinely laughed, brushing himself off. “Report to the infirmary and get yourselves patched up. Don’t think you’re getting away with this little scuffle. I’m gonna kick your asses, boys. Make you strong. We’ll find out just how serious you really are. Get out of my sight.”

          That was how we turned everything around. Every limping step toward medical care felt like victory, and seeing Luke’s genuine smile return to his face was the most gratifying feeling I’d experienced in years. I stayed by his bed that night, talking to him about the future as a nurse tended to our wounds. I told him he was a good man, that he didn’t have to change. I told him I believed in him, and that he’d own that farm one day. That he’d marry Lydia, and that Tifa and I would be there to witness it.

          With every word I spoke, every promise I made, the burdens of the past several months washed away from his expression. Relaxing him until he fell asleep, comfortably, if loudly. For once, his snoring actually gave me peace.