Chapter Text
August 29th, 1927
It's five past seven in the evening and the city of Innsmouth is enveloped in an eerie darkness.
On Sixth Street, there is a square of dim light on the cobblestones, thrown by a shuttered lamp that burns, barely, sustained by a trickle of alchemical fuel-oil that hisses through its lines. The lamp is held by a woman in a black shawl who walks alone on the road.
Her name is Tifa Lockhart.
Around her the buildings are shuttered against the chill night, windows boarded over or padded with dark cloth from the inside, though some lines of warm light leak out onto the street, in spite of the inhabitants best efforts.
Though the street is empty Tifa can hear voices, and laughter, coming from the walls around her.
At the end of Sixth Street is Broadway, a curving, well-to-do place, full of shops with black shiny windows and tramstops, closed for the night, the waiting areas covered in posters.
One shows a handsome young man in uniform, saluting with pride. It says: ENLIST TODAY!
Another shows an advertisement for buying war bonds, a third, extolling the value of conserving fuel-oil. A fourth poster shows a severe woman with grey hair, posing with a finger to her lips.
The caption says:
TELLING A FRIEND MAY MEAN TELLING THE ENEMY.
Ignoring the posters Tifa follows Broadway in a long looping arc, passing the sound of plates tinkling in a restaurant with a closed door, and the muted roar of patrons in a bar with the windows painted black, and a handful of other night-time pedestrians, also dressed for the evening and cradling their own shuttered lamps.
They ignore her, and she ignores them.
At the end of Broadway is Parade street.
And across the street is Central Station.
The lights on the station clock have been turned off, but Tifa can still just about read the time, a quarter past seven.
The train arrives at seven-thirty five. She's a little early.
She crosses the street and opens one side of a huge pair of double doors, entering the station.
The inside is pleasantly warm, and pleasantly lit. Tifa gratefully extinguishes her lamp and takes off the black shawl. She's stepped into a beautiful mid-century entrance hall, with a high vaulted ceiling and marble tiles on the floor. Straight ahead there's a row of ticket booths, and on either side, metal stairways leading further into the station.
All of the booths are closed except one, which is staffed by an elderly woman in eyeglasses.
Tifa's boots click on the marble as she crosses the floor.
"Help you love?"
The woman looks up as Tifa approaches, tilting her head as old folks in glasses tend to do.
"Uh, hi." Tifa says. "I'm just here to meet someone, coming on the seven thirty-five. Is it okay if I go through onto the platform to wait?"
The woman smiles a kindly smile.
"Go ahead love. It's the last train for the night anyway."
"Thanks."
Up the stairs she turns right and heads through the empty ticket gate, which feels weird even though she's asked for permission. Her footsteps clank on the metal stairs as she climbs down onto the platform, a sense of unease growing inside her with each step, though she isn't quite sure why until she reaches the platform proper and takes a look around.
The platform is empty.
Deserted.
There's no other women waiting. No kids asleep on the benches, no infants in prams, no old folks with tired eyes.
She's completely alone.
The clock on the wall says the train is fifteen minutes away so she sits down, picking a bench which has a newspaper folded up on one corner. She reads it while she waits, the words passing through her mind and out again without leaving a trace.
She's already read today's paper of course, like everyday.
There's only one topic, like always.
The war.
And the news is the same as always.
Nothing much to report.
The minutes pass in silence but eventually the clock ticks over to seven thirty-five and Tifa stands on nerveless feet, hearing the distant wail of a siren and the clatter of iron wheels. The rails begin to sing, and then a train arrives a minute later, roaring into the station and carrying the smell of hot steel and steam and alchemical soot, first a huge black engine, and then several rows of passenger cars.
The windows flash past, the train slowing with a squeal of brakes.
Tifa's hands are gripping each other so tightly that her fingers are turning white.
Because the train has stopped.
And she can see that there's no-one inside.
There's no tide of young men in uniform flowing out. No smiles and bravado, no suitcases or hugs or wails of suddenly awakened children, like last time.
Instead the train is empty.
And Tifa is alone.
She steps down the platform, heart pounding in her chest. There are four cars and the platform is quite long, big enough for the largest passenger trains in the Isles. The second car is also empty, and the third, and a sense of panic is setting in as she passes the fourth car, almost running.
And then a woman steps out of the car's doorway, right in front of her.
She's young, with a pretty face and long brown hair that is tied up in a practical do. She's wearing a striking black outfit that covers her from neck to ankles, with gloves and a scarf and a black hat that makes Tifa think of the enchantresses in her childhood storybooks.
And she has a broomstick. Made of oiled black wood and shiny brass fittings, slung over her back like a backpack.
She looks cold, and tired, and there's a line of aggressively pink skin across her nose, like she's been out in the snow, or something. But then she sees Tifa, and smiles.
"Oh, hello. Is everything alright?" the woman asks.
Tifa swallows.
"Uh, yeah, I... Sorry. I was waiting for someone, but..."
She looks around. Apart from the two of them, the platform is empty.
"But he didn't come," the woman says softly.
"No..."
"Well, not to worry! I'm sure there's just been a little misunderstanding."
Tifa frowns, then pulls out one of Cloud's letters from her pocket, and reads through it hurriedly.
"Today is the twenty-ninth, right?" Tifa asks.
"Yep."
"And this is the seven thirty-five? From Landfall?"
"Yep."
Tifa's face falls and she can feel a painful ache in her chest.
He didn't come.
"Is that a letter he wrote you?" the girls asks, softly.
Tifa nods.
"And that was the most recent one?"
Tifa nods again.
The woman, whoever she is, is looking at her strangely, and then Tifa is looking back. She has a black satchel with her, slung over her back, which she is adjusting.
And embroidered on the front of the bag is the logo of the Anglian Mail Corps.
"I'm Aerith," she says, holding out a hand.
"Oh. Nice to meet you, I'm Tifa. Tifa Lockhart."
The girl, Aerith, smiles again, and it's like the sun is rising.
"If you don't mind," she says, "why don't we go see if there's a letter waiting for you."
* * *
The post office is still open and despite the blackout curtains it's warm and surprisingly cheerful inside. There's a pair of young kids running around the writing desks while their mothers chat, and a couple of teenagers working the typing machines in the far corner, and small queue of old folks behind the counter.
One of them is a man.
He's missing an arm, the limb ending just above the elbow.
"Hey Mom!"
Aerith leads Tifa over to the counter, behind which is a serious looking older woman carrying a box of parcels. She is thin and pale, with delicate lines on her face, but has strong eyes and a kind smile.
Despite being the right age Tifa notes a distinct lack of family resemblance between her and Aerith.
"Aerith, would you mind giving me a hand?"
"In a minute Mom. This is Tifa. I've gotta find a letter for her."
"Nice to meet you, dear... Alright, but make it quick."
Despite Aerith's enthusiasm, it isn't quick.
Tifa finds herself a chair over by the entrance and sits down, leaning her head against the wall and trying to relax. Her hands are sore from training, the bruises on her knuckles going green and purple overnight, and she's just so drained after the ordeal of walking to the station and finding it empty.
Cloud didn't come. But then again, no-one came.
Surely that meant it was all just a big misunderstanding.
To pass the time she reads the posters on the walls. There's the usual wartime pulp, and job postings and public service announcements in military type, and then her eyes alight on a stylised drawing of a young woman in blue who bears an incredible, striking likeness to Aerith.
It is Aerith. On a poster, like an opera star.
The caption is an advertisement for deliveries, by broomstick, across the isles and beyond.
Is she, Tifa thinks. An actual witch?
Minutes pass. The old folks in line take their packages and leave, and then one of the mothers and her kid go out as well, after dropping a letter in a box by the exit.
Tifa can see Aerith and her mother conferring behind the desk.
There's a serious undertone to the conversation, though she can't hear what they are saying. Eventually Aerith takes a key from a chain around her neck and unlocks a door in the back of the room.
More minutes. The other mother leaves, and then the two teenagers finish their shifts, handing over stacks of typewritten paper to Aerith's Mom, Tifa overhears her name is Elmyra, and then they leave too.
Elmyra goes into the backroom and Tifa is left alone, though the post office is plenty warm and it's nice to sit, and be, without somewhere to go for once.
When Aerith comes out five minutes later she's holding a letter.
"Hey. This is the address you told me, right? Seventh Heaven, 15 Carrowmore Lane?"
Tifa's eyes go wide at the handwriting on the envelope.
It's addressed to her.
Aerith hands it over and Tifa tears the letter open immediately, unfolding the single sheet of paper inside and skim reading it in a panic. Then she reads it again and sighs.
With relief.
"He says," she says. "That home leave has been cancelled... And that he won't be on the train on the 29th. And that he can't... Tell me why, but he should be home to visit soon, but doesn't know when."
She sighs again, and clutches the letter to her chest.
"It must have just not arrived in time," Tifa continues. "You know how these things are I... Thanks so much for finding it for me, I really cannot tell you how grateful I am."
But there's a fierce frown on Aerith's face. She has her arms crossed, and she looks thoughtful, and not a little bit peeved.
"Don't be grateful..." she says. "I think we... I think we must have made a mistake. That letter arrived a week ago, I can tell from the freight stamp. And it should have been delivered, the next day... But it wasn't."
Aerith wrings her hands.
"So I guess I should apologise-"
She almost flinches as Tifa hugs her.
"It's okay," she whispers. "He's still alive. And he's coming home. And I'm so, so grateful for your help."
She steps back.
Aerith looks a little shellshocked.
"Come visit the bar sometime," Tifa adds. "I'll make you something, on the house."
"Uh... Okay."
"It was nice to meet you."
"You too."
Clutching Cloud's letter to her heart Tifa steps outside, into the cold of the night and into the darkness.
But it no longer feels eerie, no longer feels wrong.
Instead she looks up at the stars, so bright and clear with the city lights turned off.
It reminds her of home.
* * *
In the staff-only backroom of the Post Office, Aerith Gainsborough is staring at the window.
It's a wooden frame set in old stone, covered with blackout cloth in compliance with the Wartime Air-Raid Countermeasures Act, as inspected and signed off by a Military Intelligence Branch inspector.
At the bottom there's a latch. An old thing, made of metal that is going a little green with age.
The latch is bent and broken.
And below it there are gouge marks in the wood, where a crowbar has been used to force the window open.
"I can't believe it," Elmyra curses behind her.
She's got a dozen letters cradled in her arms.
"There must be dozens of them we missed. What the hell... What kind of person breaks into a post office and shuffles a bunch of letters into the wrong pigeonholes? And doesn't even take anything?!"
Aerith turns from the window and joins her in the centre of the long, narrow room. She's looking at the far end of the place, where there's a puddle of shadows, the room's single anbaric lamp not quite illuminating the whole space like it would at peacetime voltage.
In the room's darkened corner, there's a safe. A squat piece of heavy metal, with a keyhole and a numeric dial.
Elmyra follows her gaze, and goes oddly quiet.
"Do you think..." she says.
"It's empty," says Aerith.
The room is perfectly silent,
"Is it..." Elmyra says. "Supposed to be?"
"Yes."