Maybe this is the third attempt? The fourth attempt? She's lost count.
Either way, it's clear that the stain on the glossy bar top refuses to lift from its surface. Resting her elbows on the mostly-immaculate counter with a sigh, Tifa allows the damp cloth to crumple into a small pile by her folded arms. The TV continues to drone on in the background and the ceiling fan spins lazily to circulate air throughout the first floor of Seventh Heaven.
Heat, direct sun bathing the building in its warmth at peak noon, is pervasive even with all the open windows. The broken AC unit mounted in the wall sits partially dismantled on the ground just next to the jukebox. She hasn't had a chance to fix it yet. Always something going on, always something ready to steal her attention elsewhere. With all the bedrooms situated on the second floor, it's no wonder Cloud has chosen to stay away until well past sundown.
Rolling outages are not uncommon this time of year. Edge sprawls across the badland salts. Shimmering, almost splendid the way heat rises off the earth and distorts the air. The city has expanded faster than the WRO can expend resources to support the growing population. Many of those who had sought refuge from the destruction of Meteorfall with family or friends elsewhere have slowly begun to return and rebuild. To say nothing of Deepground's recent emergence, but they overcame that threat too.
Life is better than it was.
Saving the world does not guarantee a ride off into the sunset. Story book endings are unrealistic. Their story left death, destruction, upheaval, and broken pieces in its wake. Hypocritical, she knows, to keep her mourning so close to her heart, like it belongs only to her.
That's why she barely looks up when a stranger bumbles into the front door only to find it unmoving.
Her brows furrow and Tifa rubs her temples. Did she forget to lock the door again? Don't people read signs anymore?
Spelled neatly on the lacquered signage she flipped over next to the entrance.
Pushing the rag away, Tifa straightens, composes herself, and attempts to gather enough of her remaining patience and dwindling reserves to affect 'polite but very tired proprietor of a clearly closed business.'
The door rattles again and that does nothing to encourage Tifa to pick up her pace moving out from behind the counter.
"Hey, sorry, can you come back tomorrow? We're cl–...osed. For repairs…" Her voice drops from vaguely irate to a shocked whisper, breaking somewhere along the way with a tightening around her throat.
The oversized coat, ill-fitting sunglasses, and thick scarf does nothing to hide the recognizable peak of brunette bangs, nor characteristic left-right-left bounce of her feet as Aerith presses her face up against the reflective door to see inside. Poor weather for such a disguise, and yet Tifa can’t imagine one more befitting.
Aerith can't see her, not through the mirror reflection of the daytime window film painstakingly applied on the glass panels of the door. Not yet. Tifa hesitates, allowing her hand to hover just over the push-bar of the door. She could be wrong. Maybe she wants too badly to be right.
Steeling herself, Tifa practically throws the door open. It slams back on its hinges as Tifa rushes through, throwing her arms around Aerith's shoulders. Fast, but not fast enough to outstrip the fear that she fooled herself into seeing what she wanted to.
If she pulls away now, she can't continue lying to herself. So instead, she holds on.
Tightly. Tighter. Maybe too tight.