After hours, it is never the same.
A refuge in stillness; a child's voice, hangs in Cid's ears, climbing rooftop after rooftop from the ever farthest side of town.
"Kid's a dumbass." he grumbles, as he flicks at the ash. It is all he says aloud, though he has noticed the absence of pounding quakes and the clash of steel from the midnight hour.
Then he chuckles, and sucks on the flavor of his drag.
After hours, it is never the same.
If only the runts could be here. But they are not runts anymore, and Cid is old enough to conveniently forget that they are not his runts to start.
"Shame." he mutters, draining the life from his tobacco. Perhaps he is just too old to keep up with all this craziness. Or maybe they are simply too young to stop and realize that peace is a rose.
He puffs, blowing a smoke ring. He aims it at a very bright star.
After hours, it is never the same.
He does not think about the war. Shooting stars shower streamers in a diamond New Year's. The rest glitter a million times over, a sheet of colored quartz rubbed in saturated gas clouds, and pastel nebulas. Here, he watches; makes himself believe he is up there.
"I could do this all night." he sighs. No, he can not. Not tonight. There is work to be done, and only one wrench turning the bolts on the gears. He supposes he will not have a night like this for many to come.
The embers put out. The spared stump slips inside his pocket.
After hours, it is never the same, until Cid the old, sleepless pilot slinks back into his shop.
...
Inspired by a song and accompanying pixel GIF created by MellowMel:
watch?v=nVof2TG81Ak
