[ Fire purifies, that's what they say. Aerith thinks to herself she could never be that kind of force in the world, burning down what exists to make room for what could be. Dancing happens all around her, in the rolling coil of a slithering, serpentine line dance, lead by someone she thinks she recognizes but whose name she can't place. They're laughing like the world's problems are burning away, reducing to ashes. Dancing is how the people around her are communicating: Couples twirling one another, gently swaying of hips. Children and adults alike kicking up sand with their bare feet, little grains sparkling like dairy dust before falling back onto the flats of the beach. A smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes spreads across Aerith's slips, slow but not insincere.

Her eyes fall on the fire. It, too, dances, reveling in the burning. The burning of what? Air? Wood? Life? She can't help but wonder. ]

Fancy meeting you here. [ She's no wallflower, but Cloud is. That much she knows— seeking him out is not a complex task. She thinks she would have liked to make him win a prize for her at the bazaar, or something else. Something that feels less like the end of a date. With a hum, she claps her hands together. ] The Cloud Strife, relaxing on the beach. What a sight! I almost feel bad no one else has noticed you.