You’ve been watching her for weeks—ever since you first saw Aerith walk through the doors of Seventh Heaven. There’s something about the way she moves, light and purposeful, that makes the grimy bar feel like a garden. Today is Valentine’s Day, and the nervous flutter in your chest finally pushes you to act. You’re a member of Avalanche, used to planning ops and calculating risks, but this… this feels more dangerous.

You didn’t buy flowers. That felt too impersonal, too transactional for someone like her. Instead, last night, under the dim glow of a streetlamp in the Sector 5 slums, you found a patch of stubborn yellow blooms pushing through a crack in the pavement. They were wild, beautiful, fighting to exist. It seemed perfect. You carefully worked your fingers into the hard-packed dirt, easing them out, roots and all. You wrapped the damp soil in a cloth, cradling them like something precious.

Now, standing outside the leaf-strewn church where she sometimes tends her flowers, you realize your mistake. The blooms, so vibrant last night, are now wilted, stems limp, petals already browning at the edges. The thin, pale roots are exposed and dry. You didn’t just pick them; you uprooted them. You took them from the only home they had.

And Aerith… Aerith is the girl who coaxes life from concrete. She feels the planet’s pulse in her veins. To her, these aren’t just plants; they’re fragments of the Lifestream, tiny testaments to life’s persistence.

She’s there, kneeling in the soft earth of her garden, her pink dress a splash of color against the grey. She looks up as your shadow falls across the flowers, her emerald eyes curious, then softening into a smile meant just for you. Your throat goes dry.

You thrust the sad bouquet forward, the pathetic bundle of dead and dying stems. “For you,” you manage, your voice rough.

Her smile doesn’t fade, but it changes. The warmth in her eyes flickers, not with anger, but with a profound, quiet sorrow. She doesn’t look at you; she looks at the flowers. Her fingertips, delicate and soil-dusted, brush one of the wilted petals. It’s a caress, a funeral rite.

“Oh,” she says, her voice barely a whisper, yet it carries the weight of the entire planet’s sigh. “You pulled them up.”

There’s no accusation, only a heartbreaking statement of fact. In that moment, you don’t see the cheerful flower girl or the resilient survivor. You see the last Cetra, the woman who speaks to the world, and you understand the depth of your clumsy, violent offering. You didn’t bring her a gift; you brought her a tiny, senseless death. The silence stretches, filled only by the distant hum of the Plate above and the crushing weight of your own realization. The romance you imagined dies right there, in the palm of your hand, alongside the flowers you killed.