Came up with this one when I came across a prompt - apptly titled 'a lock of hair'. Hence how this was born. Pretty short, but I like it anyway.

A lock of hair.

She clutched the old, rusted scissors tightly as she stared at her unblinking form. She lifted the scissors up to the light and watched the worn-out silver dance before her eyes, almost mesmerized by it. Slowly, she lifted them back down and returned her focus to the mirror in front of her. Now was the time. No more excuses.

Taking a deep breath, Tifa placed the scissors behind her back, clenching her eyes as she closed her hands.


Another deep breath.



The gentle voice from behind her had her eyes flying open, absorbing the reflection in the mirror.


He knelt down beside her, gently brushing her cheek. She was startled to realize there was moisture on the tips of his gloves – had she really been crying?

"I… I'm fine. I just need a minute, that's all," she said quietly, lifting the scissors again. She closed her eyes, preparing for the next cut.

But it never came.

His hand grabbed onto her wrist, effectively ceasing all motion in her body. Her wrist burned from the contact, and she lifted her gaze to his. He said nothing as he removed the scissors from her hand, gently pushing her shoulder so he could sit behind her.

He moved the scissors with deliberate care, going slow enough so she could stop him if she wanted. Instead, she remained silent; watching with wide eyes as he slowly cut her hair, staring at his hands with the concentration given to only the most important of tasks.

He dusted off her back, gathering up the fallen hair into a neat pile.

"I… thank you," she whispered softly, ducking her head as his lips tilted gently.

"Anytime, Tifa."