[A feather, black as ink, flutters downward in a lazy spinning arc to land between them. Aerith's eyes fix on it, hard, and something like apprehension cuts through the heavy dullness settling over her mind like dense fog. Her fingers are clumsy, wine-drunk, though this is hard to tell when she picks up the feather, pinned between her thumb and forefinger. She twirls it lazily about.

That he has questions for her is unsurprising, from what Cloud has told her. She doesn't answer right away, her gaze fixed on the glossy feather captured in her fingertips. Eventually, however, the words come, delivered in that same slow drawl, the chipper brightness that usually permeated her tone whittled down to nothing. She seems older, this way.]

It depends on the question.

[She looks up at him, finally, her eyes somber.] Cloud told me, you know. What Tifa told you. I suppose you're going to ask about that. I'm afraid they know the story better than I do.