There was a time when I didn't count my sins so meticulously. There was a time when I even resolved to forget them entirely, or, at least, to allow them to slide over my conscience, leaving my peace of mind unmarked. Needless to say, that time is long gone. My sins are such that others involved can never forget them; why should it be any easier for me?

As such, in this space of spare time when there is, in fact, nothing required of me for the moment, my thoughts invariably drift to this subject. My friends, (shock as it is to have those whom I would define as this word) have told me that constant reflection is pointless penance, that there is nothing more I can do to atone for what I have done to that which once surrounded me. They insist that as there is nothing more I can do, I should lay thoughts of apology to rest.

But it is for this reason that I cannot forget. My deeds remain such that they can never be forgiven, never forgotten. No matter my endless years of atonement, there will never be reprieve. Thus it will never be enough.

As I look to my left, I am struck by the thought that Yuffie may share my belief that it will never be enough, though in her case I believe she is of that opinion only where food is concerned. It has been a few minutes since I last looked her way, and I am fairly certain that she has not paused since then while shoveling food into her mouth. Another glance to the side of her proves my theory; three empty Styrofoam containers of add-water ramen sit on the other side of her.

"What's up, Vince?" Her constant slurping pauses as she glances over at me. I shake my head, almost imperceptibly, then resume my inspection of the horizon. After a moment, I hear the disorganized, yet rhythmic slurping start once more. The wide cement ledge we are seated on is meant to make Cid's work somewhat easier when he arrives, though I doubt the Shera will arrive within another few hours, despite all Highwind's assurances.

"Hey, Vince, when's Cid bringin' his torturous lump of metal?" I look on Yuffie again, and give a noncommittal shrug.

"He was expected," I cast a glance at the phone Cloud coerced me into purchasing to check the exact time, "approximately five minutes ago. I am not qualified to say when he will arrive."

"Well, I'm not complainin'," Yuffie says. "Any delay on airsickness is fine by me! God, stupid old piece of junk we fly around in…" Yuffie's constant complaining on the nature of all airships is fairly irksome, as always, but the expression on her face is almost amusing to me. Yuffie apologizes for nothing, it would seem. She shows no profound remorse, and would have the world believe that this is the same has having no profound remorse. Yuffie doesn't repetitively count her sins; she has too many other things to do. I can recall the last time she laughed within a few minutes ago, and this is one of her quiet days. Yuffie is always doing something with her time, however small or trivial.

"Hey, Vince," she speaks again, as though now she has started talking she must continue. Her eyes rest on my shoes, not me. "What's up with the stabbity-stab footwear, anyway?"

"…"

"And how do you manage to put does dotdotdots into sentences?"

"…"

"Seriously, your shoes, man. Stabbity-stab, I mean it."

"Yuffie." She won't stop talking. She is like a child filling silences with her own words. But she is not a child. No person can say that Yuffie Kisaragi is a child…

"Mmm… Vince?"

"…?"

"Your nose is stabbity-stab, too."

There was a time when I didn't count my sins so meticulously. Needless to say, that time is long since past, but I may be able to let this one slide across my conscience, leaving my fragmented piece of mind unmarked.