Tifa's eyes searched hopelessly around her new bar for something intangible… something she knew was not going to return. He was not coming back. Even if he did, it would be empty and useless. So, what was she looking for? There was nothing in that bar that she could find with her burgundy eyes that would ease the dull, aching pain that she had been left with.

Each and every movement seemed useless and drained her of energy equivalent to that of 1,000 battles. Busy. That was the key. Keep yourself busy. Pick up a hobby. It was like a fucking self-help book for losers was repeating its pitying words over and over again in her desperate mind.

All she could do was float helplessly in a state of self-loathing… and she hated herself for this seemingly static position. It was a brutal cycle, like drunks that imbibe to assuage their loneliness, but push others away as a result. She saw it often and sympathized with their sadness. Now it was different. She had unknowingly begun to transform this sentiment with empathy.

Tifa sighed and shut her eyes tight. No more tears. It's pathetic. She crouched behind the bar, her legs too weak to uphold her equally frail body. Normally she was bubbly and full of life. Ms. Happy, Ms. Strength… all she wanted was to be Mrs. Strife… stop! There's only one way to explain that manner of thinking: negative. Negative and ineffectual.

Tifa had always known how to cheer up others and was struggling with the new challenge of adjusting this skill to her own well-being. Things were beginning to seem like a big fucking waste of time. She was trapped in the repetitive, depressed vastness of her own mind: over thinking, dwelling, pitying, cyclical… Maybe this would fade with the setting and rising of many suns. For the time being, however, the weight of the world was looking more stubborn than ever and unwilling to relieve her of its load.

Everything seemed to push her lower and lower and now her head was hung between her legs, just one foot from the dirty floor of her bar. She breathed in the murky dust with ease. She was too tired to care. Healthy lungs were far from the front of her mind. They weren't even allowed to take a number and wait in the back of her head to be dealt with later.

Did he know the pain he had caused her? Well, that'd be worse. That would mean he didn't care for her at all- knew of her pain, but felt no obligation to aid in its mitigation. Tifa felt sick. She was sick of being fragile, but no matter how long she allowed her eyes to search her surroundings, she found nothing that could bring her back.

That's it. Close your eyes. Retreat to that wasteland you call your mind. No elixir or magical remedy could cure her of this… this lingering demon that refused to unclog her mind, denied her the ability to recuperate, and pushed her deeper and deeper into the noxious dust that now lay only inches from her weary face.

So, what was she to do? Damage had been done to her- that was well-understood. Ignoring it wouldn't make it go away, dwelling upon it would have a similar impact, and right now her mind was far too drained to create a new way out of this dark tunnel. Maybe she was looking for a light. She was certainly lost and her sight was weaker than her body felt. She was fumbling around in the obscurity, tripping over the same rocks over and over again.

With a deafening thud, the door struck the wall as it was swung open. A man strutted into the bar, a smile on his face, luck on his side, and fate awaiting him. Tifa did not know it yet, but this unlikely hero was what her eyes had feebly sought out for so long. He held the lantern, and he knew the way out.