A/N: Thank you all for the amazing feedback/response to this story!

A little suggestion: if you want to listen to this chapter's piece, I recommend Moravec's recording of it (or for any of Chopin's Nocturnes). Rubinstein's is also great.

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Nocturne Op.48 no.1 - Chopin

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A Sea of Silence

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3: Nocturne Op.48 no.1 in C Minor

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Tifa is six the first time she plays the piano.

Sure, she's seen a piano before—they have one at home after all. And she knows that if you press on the keys, it makes noise. She giggles with childish pleasure every time she smashes her hands on the piano and her Dad sighs—Tifa, please. It's always her Mom who smiles and laughs at the noise—Let her, that's how it starts. Tifa doesn't know what is supposed to start, but she trusts her Mom, so she doesn't ask questions.

But one day, making noise isn't enough anymore. The noise she creates is chaotic and loud, and Tifa prefers the noise her Mom makes. It can be gentle or angry or lively or make her want to cry—but it's always beautiful. Beauty is the constant between her mother and her. They find it in the music that unites them. In their secret nightly practices, her Dad sound asleep upstairs. In her mother's proud smile when Tifa finishes a performance, and their eyes meet across the room. In the quiet moments where her Mom's head swings softly from side to side, the ones where she is lost in her world—Tifa asks Which song are you listening to? Most times, the answer is accompanied by a loving smile and a wink, but the words are always the same—Your song, sweetheart. For the longest time, Tifa asked When can I hear my song? but her mother only closed her eyes and hugged her close, and Tifa was left without an answer. One day, she stopped asking.

The moment Tifa tugs at her mother's skirt and declares I want to play like you, her life changes. With tears in her eyes, her Mom kneels so they can look at each other with no distance between them, and says I would love nothing more than to teach you, but you will never play like me—you will always play like you. The words confuse Tifa, so she focuses on the part she understands and jumps from joy at the confirmation she will play piano. When they sit on the bench together and Tifa learns her first scale, it opens something within her. The way the notes complement and lean into each other, sounding just right—her small fingers fumble on the keys, but she gets it, eventually. When she does, she looks at her mother with a bright smile and her Mom smiles back.

The connection between her mother and her—it opens in C Minor with vivid but simple chords and evolves as time goes by—arpeggios and chromatics and broken chords and octaves melding together to form something that is theirs. The tempo switches with the years—lento, andante, vivace, movimento—never staying still, always dynamic. Tifa imagines a sprawling, forever-changing piece, her mother and her as the only theme; it goes and on, sometimes slowing but never ending—it can't end, Tifa thinks, or she will get lost in disjunct melodies and dissonant harmonies.

And yet, deep within her, in a place she locks away, Tifa knows all things must end.

When Tifa is sixteen, the world shifts on its axis. They enter a tumultuous section, heavy chords played agitato and fortissimo until it plummets in an expressive rhapsody, the violence and majesty of the double octaves arpeggios a reflection of her soul's disquietude. Tifa cannot accept the culmination point she senses is coming, measures after measures, because it means the music will fall only to quieten forever.

There is no denying the paleness of her mother's cheeks or her arduous breathing or the weakness of her limbs. Tifa plays one night, a new piece she's wanted to learn for the longest time. It's a work in progress still, but she's proud of herself and wants her Mom to listen. As she lifts her hands from the keys, the last chord echoing in the living room, Tifa turns to her mother to find her collapsed on the carpeted floor. Her yells and pleas wake up her father, who had fallen asleep to the lullaby of the piano—he thunders down the stairs, and minutes later, they rush to the hospital.

Her mother is dying—that is the only thing Tifa retains. She has a few months, but there is nothing to be done other than relieving her. The palliative care wing is a calm, hushed, sorrowful place. Tifa spends the next two months there. She turns seventeen in her mother's hospital room; she falls asleep in a chair, holding her Mom's hand, and wakes up to a soft voice filling the air. Her mother hums with a tender smile. She says Happy birthday, sweetheart, I love you, and Tifa sobs as she realizes those are words she'll never hear again—not with the same lilting voice or the same love, not from the person who matters the most. Once the tears slow—they never truly dry—Tifa asks, for the first time in years, Was that my song? even though she doesn't expect an answer. But this is not the time for secrets anymore, and her mother stares at her with both serenity and sadness.

Your song, Tifa, is not something you can hear. It's who you are. It's the music you create as you smile at me or laugh with your Dad. I find it in everything you do and say, sweetheart. I love it most when you play for me and I can see how happy that makes you. Will you play for me, sweetheart? I want to hear you again. I want to see you happy again.

So Tifa plays. She digs out every piece she's learned in the last years, everything her Mom loved. There is no time to learn anything new; the days slip by too fast and what little time they have is too precious. Tifa records herself on her phone whenever she can, and the peace that lulls her mother whenever the recordings play justifies any sacrifices. The last piece she learned before her mother's collapse is Chopin's Nocturne in C Minor. It is the most challenging one, and Tifa is far from having mastered it. But she finds it doesn't matter, not for this. Her Mom will love it, even with missteps.

Her mother dies at night; she has become too weak to speak, but her eyes still tell stories. Tifa sits down on her left, her father on the right. The Nocturne fills the silence between them. Tifa looks at her mother, looks at her mouthing words she doesn't have the strength to utter. But Tifa doesn't need to hear the words to understand—I know, I know you love me, I love you too. In the darkness, the music grows until it crowds the small space. It reminds Tifa of the nightly practices they had, and for a moment, if she closes her eyes, all could be right—but she doesn't, knowing it's a lie.

With her head leaned back and a tired smile, her Mom listens to Tifa playing. The rise and fall of her chest slows as the Nocturne advances. The melody swells then falls into a slow tempo, each note softer than the last, until the last chords are laid down with the lightest touch.

Her mother closes her eyes, forever surrendering to the music.

And Tifa knows, as she grasps her mother's limp hand and sobs with enough force to rack her body—she knows her heart has fractured and the pieces have scattered, taking away what she loved most. Nothing can mend the wreck her mangled soul has become.

Fear and hatred replace her love for music—she realizes it after her father asks Do you want to play at the funeral? Tifa agrees; it seems like the most perfect of farewells for her mother. And yet—she can't bring herself to play. When she walks into the room where the funeral is held and she sees the piano in the corner, Tifa's hands grow damp, her pulse drums fast—too fast—in her throat, and her stomach turns and turns and—and—she's going to be sick. As she comes back from the bathroom and her gaze finds the piano again, all Tifa can hear is the Nocturne in C Minor; all she can see is her mother smiling as she fades away. Tifa tells her father and the man in charge that she won't play. Her Dad has tears in his eyes but holds them back for her sake. Tifa can tell the tears aren't because she won't play; her father's tears are for the realization she has lost something that is so intrinsically, so intensely part of who she is.

Her mother's favorite song replaces Tifa's playing. It's a beautiful song, one her Mom sang often, but the moment it starts, Tifa cries. It feels wrong, so so wrong. This isn't what her Mom would have wanted, isn't it? Tifa couldn't give her that last thing, couldn't bid her farewell in the language of music—their language. Her father wraps his arms around her, and it is the support she needs. Still, her regret only grows as the song goes on. If only, she thinks, if only, if only—

If only she had the courage to play. If only she hadn't let her mother's hand go. If only she hadn't watched the life leave her body as piano filled the air. The thoughts spiral down, down, until she reaches the bottom, and she hates her six years old self for tugging on her Mom's skirt and saying the words that changed her life.

She cannot play piano anymore, and so she buries the passion she nurtured all her life; the soil of its grave becomes the bed for regret to plant itself in her heart. The yawning roots spread far; sorrow and remorse bloom inside her, flowers that trickle poison throughout her body.

At times, the self-condemnation eases, only to slowly and terribly return. That's the thing with regret—it can build on forever, multiplying until it blinds even the most logical person. It never ends.

Regret hands her a blindfold, and Tifa is desperate to put it on. She doesn't take it off. She doesn't want to take it off. Regret swirls around her, deadly fingers caressing her cheek, murmuring saccharine lies in her ears. Tifa gets used to them until they are not lies anymore.

Those whispers, that darkness—they are her home now.

(Back in the house she grew up in, in the house she shared with her mother, the piano collects dust, a vestige of the past.)

—

For the next three weeks following her impulsive purchase, Tifa doesn't touch the piano. There's something about taking out her partitions, sitting down, and playing that makes it all real—too real. Each morning, she looks at the piano with longing or misgiving, sometimes both. Each night, before going to bed, she slows by the instrument but never stops.

If someone were to ask her why she doesn't play her new piano, Tifa would say whatever believable lie came to mind then. But no one asks her—and she wants it that way, not ready to admit her fear in front of others. Tension grows within her, threatening to burst her heart apart. She curses herself for buying that goddamn piano on most days, but there are some where she remembers the joy it brought her—and her mother. The bad days eclipse the good ones.

There has been less classical music coming from Cloud's apartment since the day he played Arabesque. Considering what Zack told her, Tifa assumes it's positive. Part of her misses the sound of the piano, though, but that's not something she'll willing to admit yet.

On Tuesday, she meets Cloud in front of the building, a new routine they've developed since that first study session; they both have a class at 8:30 that day. When she proposed to drive him, his mouth slackened, like he couldn't believe her, but he accepted quickly enough.

The sunny weather makes Tifa smile despite the temperature dropping as they enter November. Her jacket is barely enough to ward off the morning's chill, and she burrows deeper into it, shoving her hands in the pockets.

"Good morning."

Cloud twists his head to look at her. "Hey."

"Are you ready for your sociology midterm?" Tifa asks as they get into the car.

"Don't talk about that," Cloud groans. "It's in two weeks."

She laughs. "If you say so."

"Though," Cloud starts with a teasing lilt to his voice, "I could always use your help."

"Riiiight."

He fiddles with the radio, setting the volume low. "Friday?"

"Sure, but you bring the food."

"Deal."

Cloud browses through the radio stations, choosing a classical one. A familiar piano piece rings out, and Tifa feels her heart drop. She hasn't heard the Nocturne in C Minor since—since—

"Change the station."

Cloud frowns at her curt tone. "Uh, sure."

He doesn't move fast enough for her taste—the piece is at its end, and she doesn't want to hear it, she doesn't want to hear it—

"Turn it off!"

She doesn't mean to raise her voice, but her agitation gets the better of her. Before he can react, she slams her hand on the volume dial. Tifa keeps her eyes on the road, not wanting to look at Cloud. Despite her best efforts, her hands tremble on the steering wheel and she senses the tears rising up.

"Are you okay?"

It's the softness of his voice that breaks her. Tifa pulls the car over; keeping on driving isn't the safe choice. She forces herself to inhale and exhale deeply, but it doesn't drag the panic away.

"Tifa—"

"Can you leave?" Tifa closes her eyes, hoping the lack of stimuli will help her calm down. "Please," she adds as he stays silent.

"I can stay, I—"

His protest is too much, and the word leaves her mouth in a sob, "Please."

"Okay, okay." The alarm in his voice is clear. "I'll wait outside."

No, no, no—she doesn't want him to wait and see her like this.

She hears Cloud get out of the car; he says something else before closing the door. "I don't want to leave you like that… Take all the time you need, I'll drive us after, okay?"

Tifa nods, past the point of caring as long as he shuts the door and leaves her alone. Her hands come up to hide her face; the illusion of being alone soothes her a little. The cacophony of the city becomes white noise until she can focus only on herself. In and out—she has to breathe in, breathe out. Some tears fall, but she lets them. Time doesn't exist as she attempts to regain control of herself. She hadn't expected to hear that; if she had, maybe her reaction would have been different, but Tifa knows dwelling on alternatives won't help her. Her senses went haywire, assailing her all at once. She had smelled the lingering scent of antiseptic and the perfume of the flowers her father had brought; had felt the thin skin of her mother's hand under hers; had seen that final, worn-out smile her Mom had given her; had heard that goddamn piano waning as her Mom exhaled for the last time.

She has no idea how long she stays in the car, but when she's evened out her breathing and her hands don't shake anymore, she looks for Cloud. Anxiety mingles with gratitude at the sight of him sitting on a bench further down the street. He's far enough to give her the impression of privacy. In spite of her earlier objection, Tifa is glad he didn't leave. Now that the wave of emotions is gone, she finds she wouldn't want to be alone.

Cloud glances up and puts his phone away when she sits next to him. Tifa tugs on the sleeves of her oversized jacket, a part of her wishing she could be swallowed whole and disappear.

"Are you feeling better?" he asks when it becomes clear she won't talk first.

Tifa nods.

"That's good… Do you still want to go to class?"

"I probably should," she says.

"Okay, then I'll drive us." Cloud gets to his feet, halting when she grabs his hand. He turns to her, inquisitive, and she lets go now that she has his attention.

Tifa clears her throat. "I should, but I don't want to. I can drop you at school."

"Oh." He takes off his cap to ruffle his hair. "I'd rather stay with you."

"Look, I'm fine, it was just…" She trails off, unsure how to explain her reaction. "I don't need you to stay with me."

Cloud stares at her for a moment before saying, "If you want to be alone, then okay. But if you don't, I'll stay with you."

Tifa bites her lip, not sure what to choose. She wants to be alone for the simple reason that no one will ask questions then. But the truth is she'd rather be with someone right now. Aerith would come running if Tifa called her, and she considers it. They've been friends for three years now, and Aerith knows about her history with piano. On the other hand, Cloud is her neighbor and a new friend—he won't be as likely to pry. If he does, she'll say she doesn't want to talk.

"Well, if you don't mind," she says as she stands up.

He puts the cap back on and smiles. "I don't. Anything you wanna do?"

"You know what?" She blows out a breath. "I want to have breakfast."

"Perfect," he laughs. "I'm starving."

"Don't you eat in the morning?"

They start walking, Tifa leading them towards a nearby breakfast place she knows.

"Not really," Cloud admits. "I don't get hungry right after I wake up, and I usually wake up twenty minutes before I have to leave. The hunger hits right as class starts."

"What terrible eating habits. No breakfast, takeout." Tifa manages to form a tiny smile to let him know she's not serious. "Don't tell me you eat cereals for supper?"

Cloud shrugs. "Sometimes."

The restaurant is small and cozy. The waitress leads them to a table in the back and serves them coffee. Cloud takes a sip of his as soon as she leaves. For her part, Tifa doesn't touch it. Her heart still races from her earlier episode and drinking coffee won't help. They make their choice in silence and give their orders to the waitress. Once she's gone, Tifa's nervousness returns and only increases at the concerned glint in Cloud's eyes. But he doesn't ask what happened, not directly.

"Does it bother you when I play classical music?" He holds her gaze, and she can't hide from the genuine consideration he exudes.

"No." Tifa sighs at her dishonesty and concedes, "Not that much."

"I'll lower the volume so you don't hear it."

"It's fine. Cloud, it's fine," she repeats at his disbelieving expression. "It was the piece itself that—" She pauses to keep her calm, not wanting to relive the experience again. "The music you play is fine. As long as it's not that piece."

Cloud nods once, twice, like he's absorbing her words. "Do you mind telling me the name? So I can avoid playing it."

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, sure. It's Chopin's Nocturne in C Minor."

He writes it down in his phone; her surprise must show because he says, "I don't want you to go through that again."

"Thank you," she says softly. "That's... Thanks, Cloud."

"Don't mention it."

They chat through their meal, an easy atmosphere settling between them. Tifa is grateful for his thoughtfulness and the lack of invasive questions. She wouldn't even know where to begin if she had to explain. The void inside her is gaping in a way she can't put into words.

When they leave the restaurant, the sun has receded behind a heavy cover of clouds. Tifa pouts at the sudden gloominess.

"This weather sucks."

Cloud looks down at his phone. "Says it's gonna rain soon."

"We should head back, then."

She only makes it five steps before noticing Cloud didn't follow. Tifa turns back and comes to his side. Cloud is still looking at his phone.

"Your brother?"

"Yeah…" He sighs. "It's weird, he's bringing up random shit from years ago."

Cloud leans against the brick wall, getting out of the way of passers-by; Tifa does the same.

"Things that happened between you two?"

"Not even, no. He texted me to say he bumped into a girl I used to see. And then—" He shakes his head. "In short, he uses her as an example to accuse me of not treating people right. As if he knows what even happened with her."

Tifa frowns. "He really said that?"

"Pretty much. I don't get it." Frustration enters his voice. "I don't understand why he would do that. We're not close, but I'm not going around accusing him at random." He raises his head and puts the phone away. "Nothing went wrong with her as far as I know. I mean, Jessie knew I don't do girlfriends, and that was fine with her. When we stopped seeing each other, it was mutual." Cloud shoves his hands in his pockets. "So unless she mentioned something to him, I don't understand why he'd say that."

For some reason, his casual remark about not having girlfriends doesn't surprise Tifa, though it does bring back the first time he flirted with her three weeks back. But for now, she pushes the thought aside.

"He might be mad at something and taking it out on you," Tifa says. She props her leg up against the wall and watches as people go about their morning. "You could call him later, ask him what's up."

"You're right, I'm just… I'm fed up," Cloud admits. "I want to help him if something is wrong, but he's not making it easy."

She elbows him. "Show him you're there for him. Actions speak louder than words and all that."

"Yeah. I'll try to call him again later." He twists his head to look at her. "Still feeling okay?"

The question throws her back to her episode, but it doesn't overwhelm her; she takes it as a good sign.

"I'll be fine."

"Look—" He hesitates for a second. "If the music I put on ever makes you uncomfortable, please tell me."

"I already told you, I don't mind it." Most of it.

"Tifa," he says, almost a whisper. "I don't want you to think I'm prying, but just know that if you need someone to listen, I'll be there."

Her throat closes up, preventing her from speaking, so she nods. Vulnerability seizes her and makes it hard to find words, anyway. The last person who saw her have this kind of reaction was her father before she left for Midgar, three years ago. Though Aerith knows the extent of her pain in a way Cloud doesn't, she's never witnessed Tifa losing control over herself. Cloud has seen a part of her she never wanted to expose to anyone, and she can't act like it won't shift the flow of their interactions.

Cloud doesn't push her for an answer beyond her brief nod; he pushes away from the wall right as it begins to rain and brings the hood of his jacket over his hair. Tifa does the same.

"Shit. Come on."

They take off towards her car, speeding up as the rain gets stronger. Once in the car, Tifa turns up the heat and asks, "I'm going back home. Is there anywhere you want me to drop you?"

"School, if that's alright with you? I have a class later I should really attend."

The drive to the university is filled with idle chatter. Cloud doesn't turn on music this time. Once they arrive, he pauses, one hand on the door handle.

"I'll be okay," Tifa says with a smile.

He still doesn't exit the car. "Let me know if there's something I can do to help, okay?"

"Don't worry, I will." To her shock, she finds she means it. "Now go."

"I'll see you Friday," he says as he gets out. The door shuts behind him as he runs for the nearest entrance.

Tifa waits until he disappears inside the building before leaving. This morning has exhausted her, and when she gets into her apartment, she heads for her bedroom, falling face-first on the bed. She doesn't want to think about what happened. She just wants to sleep. It doesn't take long before her eyes close.

In her dreams, there is no more music.

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