Notes: (a) Zarghidas is now Sal Ghidos, to fit in with the new translation.

Thank you very much for all the feedback so far!

---

I want to hide from the world. No—I want the world to disappear. And not just this world, this strange, strange Ivalice, but all worlds. I don't want to see the sun again. I try to bury my head into my pillow as if it's sand, and pull the covers up as if they're going to protect me, to stop me from feeling like this. I want to hide form the world, I want to...

I want to be sick. Of course I feel like this—there was last night, of all things, and I haven't been awake for more than a few minutes. It's all hitting me at once. When I sit up I feel as if my joints are grinding against each other and I've left my stomach far behind. But this is good, I try to convince myself. That cheap, disgusting beer is making me feel sick, and this is a real sickness, not one caused by not remembering and not belonging. I'm becoming part of this world, slowly but surely.

But, dammit, that doesn't stop me from wanting to throw up. Boldly I stand, and my feet find the ground more easily than I expected them to—my mind reels for a moment, but everything eventually settles. If I can just eat I know I'll feel so much better. Eggs, I think. We have eggs. I'm wearing the same clothes from last night, but that doesn't matter too much at the moment. My goal right now is getting to the kitchen without vomiting.

Half-way down the stairs I suddenly freeze. This always happens when I drink: those wonderful minutes where I don't remember what happened the night before don't last long enough. Aerith's going to be in the kitchen, isn't she? And, last night, we... were having fun, I suppose. I don't think I said anything too ridiculous. I mean, she was fairly drunk herself, so it's likely she's in the same boat as me. But after the tavern, when she had her arms around me, after that... no, nothing happened. That's right. No need to worry, Cloud, you did just fine.

Aerith's in the kitchen when I get there, and the smell of her breakfast—as wonderful as it is—makes my stomach turn. Just relax, I tell myself, and make more noise than I need to when I enter the kitchen. She turns to me, smiles brightly for a second but then loses it. I guess she's realised that it's not going to be so easy to talk to me as it was last night. We're both painfully sober now, and hungover from the looks of it. Her hair is a mess—I think the spikes might rival mine—and she looks very pale, completely washed out.

Am I really that unapproachable? Mustadio was always saying I was rude, but I never really noticed it until now. As I look at her and quietly say good morning, I hope, above all things, that she doesn't find me threatening. There are enough men like that already around Sal Ghidos. Taking a seat I rest my forehead in my palm and grumble nothing.

"I'm sorry," she suddenly says, and her voice sounds so much louder than it should. Aerith taps the broken eggshell on the side with a big wooden spoon. "They were you eggs, I know, but—"

"But we over did it a bit last night." I don't scold her, of course. Even if I did care about something so petty I wouldn't make a fuss. "Don't worry about it, Aerith. They were for you and Ifalna, anyway."

When I look up, she's smiling at me weakly—I'm not sure whether it's because of this odd little gesture of mine or because she's remembering last night, but I relax a bit. Perhaps this won't be so awkward, after all. Aerith tells me (tells, doesn't ask) that she's going to make me some eggs, and I'm relieved. I'm not much of a cook, and I doubt I ever have been. When I think back, there was always someone cooking for me: a woman I can only assume was my mother, and more recently, a woman with long black hair.

I forget about the far past for a minute, and think back to last night. It was—well, I enjoyed myself. I'd go as far as to say it's the best day I've ever had in this world, but that doesn't really say much. Also, I don't think I'm up for doing that again for a while. I run my hand across my face and through my hair and I am utterly exhausted. I can't have slept more than five hours.

Aerith puts fried egg down on a chipped plate in front of me, and slides into the chair opposite with plate of her own. I don't eat for a moment, just sit up, rest my hands on the side of the chair and watch her—she eats quickly, so she must be in the same frame of mind as me. Eat until the hangover's gone. After a minute or so my game's up, because she finally looks up from her breakfast and offers up a quizzical look.

"It's easy to get carried away."

"Hmm?" She still has the fork in her mouth.

"Drinking. When you're nervous," I clarify, and move onto the important business of cutting up my egg. The knife scrapes against the plate and splits my head in two.

"Nervous? Why were you nervous, Cloud?" She's being naïve on purpose, but grinning a little through her cloud of confusion.

I shrug. I really am so much bolder when I'm drunk. Aerith looks a bit annoyed, but quickly shakes it off and digs back into her food. I follow suit. A couple of minutes worth of quiet contemplation pass, and then:

"Being here, with you. I think I lost half of who I was along the way to... here. Your world. I mean, look at me, Aerith. I'm not meant to be here, and I've not been helping myself. Yesterday I decided to try and work things out, just to find a way home, and I... I just thought maybe talking with you with you would be the first step. I can't explain it."

Oh. Apparently a sober Cloud can open up, too. As soon as the words leave my mouth I want to hide from the world again, to sink into my chair. Of course I can explain it! It just doesn't make sense. I can't tell her that we met long before we met, that I came back to her, not this dammed city. Across the table Aerith looks a little surprised—I probably mirror her expression, right now—but she's so understanding it's painful.

Reaching across the table she covers one of my hands with her own. I'm still clutching my fork, and suddenly it becomes clammy. She gives my hand a squeeze, and my eyes snap up to hers. I want to say something, she wants to say something; but instead we are silent, and I think this is the way it should be. Until we recover from our hangovers, at least.

We sit like that for whole seconds until the kitchen door swings open, and Aerith pulls back her hand with frightening speed; amidst the panic I knock my elbow against the arm of the chair. I bite my lip and try to will away the jolt of pain. It's Ifalna, of course. I don't know who I was expecting. She walks into the kitchen calmly, as if she hasn't interrupted anything (I pause here: was there really anything to interrupt?) and looks miles better than Aerith and I.

I suddenly have a horrible thought: was Ifalna home last night? I didn't even think to be quiet, and Aerith made so much noise with the lantern and that frying pan I wouldn't let her use, and then there was all that laughing we did over nothing.

"I take it you two had fun last night." Well, there's my answer. Ifalna doesn't look as if she's annoyed—somewhat amused, if anything. It's probably best if I don't make a habit of it, though. Aerith is blushing, and she already looks recovered with the colour rushing back to her face. I quickly finish off the last of my breakfast and put my plate in the sink, once again feeling the full force of the hangover. I need a bath—a real bath—and to sleep for at least an entire day.

---

When I'm not dreaming, I work. For the most part, it's easy; I never take on any bills that look daunting, and the biggest injury I've suffered so far is a deep cut on my right arm from a Chocobo's claw. The money's not terrible, even if I have no idea what I'm actually saving it for, and now that I take on a new job every two days or so, the barkeeper at the tavern knows me well enough to stop watching me across the bar whenever I walk in. The biggest job I've taken on took five days to complete, and I've never seen someone quite so angry as Aerith when I returned. First she shouted, saying I could have been killed—I only had a bruise on my left knee—and then flat-out refused to talk to me for a couple of hours. In the end I mumbled an apology, and she made me sit with her at the table, took out a scrap of paper, and started penning down all of the dreams I could remember.

We make a point of doing this every few days now, when we're both around. Although I'm trying—trying so hard—to talk to her, and not to disappear with my sword on my back for days on end, we see each other less now. A hour or two in the evenings, if I'm lucky, and sometimes at breakfast. She tells me I need to slow down, and I honestly think she's right—but gil is gil, and it's certainly something she doesn't have enough of. We've been eating well, these past few weeks. We even had meat a couple of days ago.

It's Sunday when we're both next together, and Ifalna's at Church. I asked Aerith why she doesn't go, once, and it seems the business with the Stones is enough to make anyone question their faith. As is men appearing from strange worlds. There's something odd about her today, though. She's got the pencil in one hand, and I'm trying to rack my brains to produce something (so far the list we've made of What Cloud Remembers reads like a landscaping magazine) but she's not really all there. Sometimes I'll say something and she won't hear me, and she just looks so distant. I don't know if I should worry or not, because this has been going on for a few days now. I think she thinks I haven't noticed, but something is eating her up the same way she's chewing the end of the pencil.

"Aerith?"

She shakes her head and she's back with me. "Oh, Cloud—sorry. Do you remember anything more?" I've been telling her about one of the dreams I had the night we came home painfully drunk—only I don't say it was from that night; truth be told, that's the last time my dreams weren't just random sequences of images.

"Okay," I say, and lean back on my chair so two legs are in the air. "It's like this," I close my eyes and stretch out my arms, as if trying to see it in the black of my eyelids again. "Every thing's red. At first it looks like the sun's just too bright, but the whole... the whole—it's a canyon, I think—the whole canyon is red rock." I can hear her making notes. A flash of pain cuts through my head, and I bite the inside of my mouth. "I think people live there, because the are houses scattered around. I'm there with other people—lots of people. Maybe seven or eight, and we're—sitting around a fire. I don't know if it is a fire. Maybe it's sun. But we're together, we're—"

"What do they look like?" There's something creeping into Aerith's voice. As ever, her breathing is hitched a bit. I think this disturbs her; I think she thinks I'm mad. Maybe I am, maybe I am.

"No idea." I shrug and open my eyes, and the image is gone. "I look around and they have no faces, and I try to focus on them and my head hurts more. But someone I was with was—upset? Alone?" I shake my head, and that's a sure enough sign that today's unraveling is over. I feel like a test-subject, like part of a discarded experiment. My head hurts so much now that I have to rest it in my arms against the table top, and the next thing I hear is Aerith place a glass of water in front of me. Usually she'd stay with me at times like this, but today she whispers that she hopes I feel well again soon, and then she's gone from the room, just like that.

What's wrong with you, Aerith?

By the time I've been living with Aerith and Ifalna for two months, we've visited the tavern together a few more times, and managed to stay respectfully tipsy. It's not been as exciting as the first night, and I wonder if I've broken something between us; if there was anything in the first place. Zack's usually working when we do go, and I wonder why I don't see him around town that much. The barkeeper who used to look at me wearily says Zack spends most of the day sleeping, and I'm not sure whether he was joking or not. Either way, I've heard Zack a few times; he drops into Aerith's place every now and again. I've no idea what they talk about, but I always feel as if I shouldn't interrupt. They're old friends, or something like that. I never did get around to asking.

"Good-day, Cloud!" Zack exclaims when I go job hunting one day—he's covering the other guy's shift. I pull up a stool and sit by the bar with him, and work's quickly forgotten. He gives me a pint, and doesn't charge me for it. "So," he says, not as casually as I think he was going for. "You're living with Aerith now, correct?"

"Yeah." It's depressing how I've become used to the taste of this beer. Zack nods very slowly, trying to hide his reaction.

"Oh, she's a good girl, Aerith," he tells me, while his eyes flicker around the bar nervously. "I hope you're taking good care of her."

If only you knew Zack, if only you knew. (If only I knew.)

But he doesn't stop there. "I used to, you know. Live with her, I mean." Suddenly I'm holding my pint glass tighter than before. "When I was much younger, that is. Our parents knew each other, and I wanted to try and make something of myself in this city, so they gave me the spare room. Honestly, we drove each other mad. I think we're too alike." Why is he telling me this? Suddenly, he laughs, and the whole tone of conversation changes. My head clears. "Now look at me, working in a bar! Not really what I had in mind, Cloud."

"Where are you from?" I don't mean to sound as bitter as I do, really. Zack's in his own reminiscing world and doesn't seem to notice.

"Ah. A small rural village, about fifteen miles west. Where did you say you were from again, Cloud?"

I didn't, but I don't have it in me to lie to Zack right now. "I'm not really from around here," I say, and start drinking again so I don't have to continue.

Zack stares at me for a very long moment, and a confused expression clouds his face. He rubs his chin with his thumb and first finger, before breaking out a smile and saying, "Oh, Gariland, right?" He looks rather pleased with himself. I nod, and then I'm treated to a half-hour rant about what a horrible place it is—no offense meant to me, of course.

---

It's a day after my talk with Zack, and Aerith won't stop pacing. Whatever's wrong with her is getting worse, and she still won't tell me what's the matter. She's jumping at every little thing—the door slamming in the wind, me saying "Good-morning" too loudly—and not able to stay in one place for more than a few seconds. It's so frustrating—I want to take a hold of her by the shoulders and make her sit still for just a few minutes, to make her tell me what the problem is. All the time she tells me she's perfectly fine and smiles warmly at me. I suppose this is how it feels when people try to help me out. I don't think she's been to work for a couple of days now.

We're sitting in the front room when someone knocks against the door. The noise echoes through the whole of the house, and Aerith is quick to put down the book she wasn't reading and rush to open it. Slowly I make my way through the kitchen and into the hallway, and—well, this is unexpected. My heart skips a beat when I see who's standing in the doorway, and I can't believe my luck. Mustadio! He's introducing himself to Aerith, and has a bag slung over his shoulder.

"Cloud!" he says when he sees me, a bit apprehensively. I never was on my best behaviour around him. "I've been looking for you for sometime now. What luck to have finally found you!"

I tell him it's good to see him, and Mustadio tells me that he has something to tell me. We both glance at Aerith without meaning too, and although she wants to listen in, she smiles, tells Mustadio it was a pleasure to have met him, and heads upstairs to her own room. I can't think straight—not from headaches, for once, but excitement—and I hurry to get us both sat at the kitchen table.

"She seems to be a lovely woman," Mustadio says, "She's the flower peddler whom you were trying to defend, is she not?"

I nod. "Aerith." On to more important things now. "Have you fixed it?"

Mustadio suddenly casts his eyes away from me. Oh. I should have expected as much, I shouldn't have got my hopes up. I suppose I'm not going home today. Without wanting to, I suddenly feel angry—why is he here, after dragging me to this damn world, if he doesn't have a way to send me back? Eventually he shakes his head, and apologises profusely. I don't listen to what he says. Something about Stones, and not understanding how machines actually work. I don't want to hear any of it.

"But, I did not come simply to, ah, rub salt in the wound," Mustadio says. And so we get to the point. He picks up the bag he had previously been carrying and opens it. He pauses, and I can't see in to it. "The transporter that brought you here has been exhibiting strange behaviour as of late. My father thinks it a mere after effect, that the dimension you came from is still attached to ours by a single thread, but I rather think that parts of your world are following you here, Cloud."

"So you're saying..." I'm trying so hard to peer into the bag that I'm on leaning out of my chair.

"That's right; these objects came through not long ago. I thought I might do well to ask whether they belong to you."

Mustadio empties the bag, and there are only two items in it. I don't know how, I don't know why, but I suddenly find it difficult to breathe. These are mine. I reach out with trembling fingers to make sure they're really real—it's like touching part of home. A thin pink ribbon and my phone. I bite my lip, take them between my palms—Mustadio asks if I can explain what the phone is at some point, and I nod, not really hearing him. I just want him out, I just need to be alone. If I can look through the phone, then... names! The phone book will be full of names.

Five minutes later and Mustadio's gone. I've agreed to meet him the same time next week, and he's sworn to me that he's still working on the transporter. Holding the phone in one hand and the ribbon so tightly in the other that my nails are cutting into my palm, I turn to the stairs and am stopped dead in my tracks. Aerith is sitting there, and I want to kick myself. All this excitement at the possibility of getting home, the thought of being somewhere different—she's smiling, but it doesn't reach her eyes. There's a sadness, and it's nothing to do with what's been troubling her lately.

It scares me how hard realisation hits me. I'd miss her. I'd miss her so much it's hardly worth going back—I came here for a reason. But I've got to be stronger than this, I've got to see it through to the end. Trying my best to smile back, I sit down next to her, and for a while all I can hear is my heavy breath and the blood pumping in my ears.

"You're leaving?" she asks, and her voice is not as stable as she would like it to be. "Going back to your world, I mean." She has her knees hunched up to her chest, her head rested on her arms as she looks up at me.

I don't know what to say. This definitely isn't unusual for me, but my throat is tight, and I feel like whatever I say will be the wrong answer. I don't want to leave you, Aerith, but I can't be here. This place is breaking me apart bit-by-bit from the inside, and I can't comprehend why. "Not for a long time yet." We both try to smile.

There's silence between us again. I smooth my thumb over the pink ribbon and try to place it in my mind—it thins and creases at both ends, and if it's been knotted together in a loop. I'm not sure why I'd own something like this, but the more I look at it, the more I want to turn and face Aerith. Eventually I build the courage up inside of me—funny how easy killing fiends is, compared to this—and say, "Hey, Aerith," so she's looking at me again. Reaching over I take one of her hands and pull it towards me. She looks at me quizzically but doesn't say anything, and quickly I get to work tying the ribbon loosely around her wrist. It looks... right there.

"From my world," I explain. "I'm... not sure why I had it, but I think it'll look better on you than me."

Aerith brushes her fingers across the ribbon, and then smiles at me—really smiles, and even laughs a little too. She thanks me because it's all she can do, and carries on touching the ribbon as if it's a part of her. Soon enough she stands up, and she's almost looking back to her old self. She tells me to carry on upstairs, and to work out how to use... whatever it is I have in my hand. She stares at the phone as if it might bite her.

Half way up the stairs I turn to her and say, "Don't worry, Aerith. I'm not going to vanish without saying goodbye." She doesn't look as cheered as I had hoped; I suppose she wanted me to say that I wasn't going to disappear, full stop.

---

I turn the phone on, and the battery's at eight seven percent. The phone comes to life and lights up my dim little room with a generic greeting message, and I'm so scared that my hands are shaking and I can't press any of the buttons. This is it. Names, messages. Maybe even photos. My old life, in a tiny electronic box. Even though I don't swear much I keep cursing as I look down at it. I've missed this—real technology—more than I care to admit. And more than helping me fill in the gaping blanks, this proves that I didn't make this all up. It proves I really did come from another world.

Well, shit.

Eventually, after reminding myself that the battery will drain if I'm not quick, I take a deep breath and calm myself. I press the button in the top-right, address book, and prepare myself to look through it. I scan the list, trying to eat all the information up. A lump forms in my throat when I realise the names don't mean anything to me. Barret. Cid. Cosmo C. Elmyra. Highwind Airships. Home. Me. Reeve. Tifa. Top-up credit. Vincent. Voice mail. Yuffie. I scroll through three times, just searching: why isn't her name here? I've been so sure that I know her, dead set in my ways; so where's Aerith? Why isn't she first in my phone book. A. A. A-e-r-i-t-h. I'm definitely spelling it right. I want to throw the phone against the wall, and barely manage to refrain myself.

It doesn't matter if her name's not in this list, I'm not wrong about knowing her. Maybe—maybe she's "home." It's idiotic to even try, but I stop scrolling and hit the green call button. There's not even a dialing tone. The phone beeps angrily at me, and a prerecorded message apologises for there not being any service in this area. I hang up, and it a network failure message shows up. Snapping the phone shut, I try and relax. There's more to find, and I should be happy with what I have. Laying so I'm on my front, I hold the phone out in front of me and open the message inbox. I just scroll for a moment. Most of the messages are from "Tifa," but I stop when there's one from "Barret," about six texts down. It doesn't make sense to me—something about me looking after someone called Marlene. There are thirteen messages in all, and I begin to read them in reverse order. Most of them I haven't replied to.

This Tifa likes to ask if I'm alright a lot. "Cid" has send a message that is not much more than a string of swear words, and "Yuffie" asks why I didn't turn up to Wutai—Wutai? What's one of those, anyway?—when "the others" did. This is all mundane, and I'm not getting anywhere—no flash backs, no sense memory, nothing. I skip Barret's message, and there are three more from Tifa, asking me how I am. One I replied to. I raise my eyebrows, impressed with myself. It's not until I get to the second to last message that I manage to get a reaction out of myself, and... and—I wish I hadn't.

It's been a year, Cloud. Please don't do this to yourself. Let her rest.

My hands are shaking again. I don't want to open the last message, but ignoring it isn't going to make it go away—it's happened. It's happened already, and my fingers are moving against my will. It loads on the screen, and my eyes can't focus on the words at first; and yet, I know what it says. I've not forgotten, I've just been ignoring the pieces. I've never had a headache like this before, and I want to scream out, to throw myself against the walls. It's Tifa again, and the message was sent an hour later—I must have replied, and I don't know what I said to get this reaction:

I know it's hard. I miss her too. But try and forgive yourself, Cloud. Aerith would want you to be happy.

Aerith. I don't want to believe the word. I want to hide from the world, to throw up on the floor, to shout and shout. I can't remember this, not this of all things. The whole of me is shaking, and the pain is splitting my head in two—every time I blink images without any form or colour flash behind my eyelids. My fingers are tingling and my mouth is dry. This—this feeling has happened before, hasn't it? My eyes are burning, and yet the message is still there, glowing at me as if to mock me. There's nothing I can do but turn the phone off and try to breathe. I can't help it; the whole room spins without me and the next thing I know I'm clinging to the headboard as if it will save me and emptying myself on the cold stone floor.

I'm still shaking and I've thrown up so much that nothing but bile's coming out any more. I hear footsteps against the stairs, and I know it's her; the noise should comfort me, but the reality of it all falls down and crushes me.

There's a burning behind my eyes, a horrible heat, and all I can do is dig the heels of my palms into my eyes and wait for the feeling to pass.

I don't think it ever will.