Aerith knew the exact moment you would arrive. The little bell above the door of her Sector 5 flower stall would chime at 4:15 PM, without fail, as the weak Midgar sun began its long slide behind the plate. She would have already set aside a single, perfect camellia—its petals a deep, blushing pink against the waxy green leaves. It was a ritual, a silent conversation that had become the brightest part of her day.

She watched you now, a gentle smile touching her lips as you ducked under the low doorway. Your tailored suit was always just a bit too stiff for the slums, a stark reminder of the world you were forced to inhabit. A world that was not your own.

“Right on time,” she said, her voice warm. She held out the camellia, her fingers brushing yours as you took it. A tiny, illicit spark. “It’s especially vibrant today. It must like the anticipation.”

You paid, the transaction feeling as hollow as ever. The gil would go toward soil, seeds, keeping this little patch of life alive. But the real exchange was in the air between you—the unspoken words that lingered longer each visit.

“For the fiancé, I presume?” Aerith asked, her tone light but her green eyes, the color of the Planet’s deepest life streams, holding yours with an intensity that belied her casual words.

You gave a slight, weary nod. An arranged marriage. A business transaction wearing a wedding dress. The mention of it always made her heart clench with a protective ache.

She busied herself with tidying a tray of lilies, unable to hold your gaze for too long. “She must be thrilled. Camellias every week. A man of such… predictable devotion.” The playful lilt was there, but the underlying meaning was clear. She doesn’t see you. Not like I do.

You sighed, a soft sound of resignation that she felt in her very soul. “She finds the routine acceptable.”

Aceeptable. The word was a crime. Aerith’s hands stilled. She looked at you—really looked—seeing the quiet intelligence in your eyes, the kindness you tried to hide behind formality, the subtle weariness that spoke of a caged spirit.

“You know,” she began, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, as if sharing a secret with the flowers. “I think you deserve more than ‘acceptable.’ You deserve someone who waits for the sound of the bell at 4:15. Someone who knows a camellia from a carnation, and knows that the difference matters. Someone who sees the man in the suit, not just the suit itself.”

She dared to meet your eyes again, her bravery fueled by a certainty that flowed from her very being, a Cetra’s intuition. “You deserve the best.”

The silence that followed was thick with everything she hadn’t said. Like me. You deserve someone like me. The hope hung in the fragrant air, fragile as a petal. She saw the conflict in your face, the flicker of something real and yearning before the mask of duty settled back into place.

You pocketed the camellia, a token for a woman who would never understand its language. “Thank you, Aerith. Until next week.”

“Until next week,” she echoed, her smile never fading, even as her heart ached.

As you disappeared into the dusty lane, she gently touched the camellia she’d kept for herself, an identical twin to the one now in your pocket. She would wait. She would always wait. Because some bonds, like the flowers she nurtured from barren ground, were worth the patience. You were worth it all.