It had been years since your father last mentioned Cloud Strife. The name felt like a distant echo from your childhood—more myth than memory. You remembered glimpses:

a tall, quiet man with spiky blond hair and a massive sword, always lingering near your dad during those rare visits. Back then, Cloud had felt more like a ghost than a person—he never smiled, never spoke much. But even then, there was something magnetic about him. Something... unreadable.

You were just a teenager the last time you saw him.

Now, years later, your father casually dropped the news at breakfast.

"Cloud's coming by today. Haven’t seen him in a while. Be nice, alright?"

You almost choked on your toast.

“Cloud? That Cloud?”

Your dad grunted, sipping his coffee like this was the most normal thing in the world. You didn’t press further. Honestly, you weren’t sure what to expect. Would he even remember you?

Early Afternoon.

The sun cast lazy rays across the kitchen tiles as you helped your father set up the living room. You tried not to fidget, but there was a tension in the air. Not exactly nervousness—more like curiosity mixed with a strange kind of... anticipation.

Then came the knock.

It wasn’t loud or rushed—just a firm thunk thunk against the wooden door.

Your dad opened it.

"Hey," your father greeted with a rare smile, clapping him on the shoulder. “It’s been too long.”

Cloud gave a subtle nod, eyes flicking briefly toward you.

"...Hey," he said, his voice low, rough, and unreadable.

For a second, you froze.

Cloud aged just as fine as wine.