Three Sentence Ficathon

"Papa, I'm eighteen," Marlene groaned. "I can have a tattoo if I want one! You've got like twelve!"

"Baby, you've been eighteen for a week, give me some time to adjust." Barret collapsed in his armchair, overcome with Excess of Emotion. Yes, his girl was eighteen now, and no, he had nothing against tattoos, but hell, it seemed like only yesterday Marlene was four years old, playing behind the counter of Tifa's bar. Why did time have to fly so fast?

"...okay, lemme see," he asked, and Marlene proudly pulled her sleeve up to show off the new ink on her shoulder: a small, delicately rendered Phoenix, rising out of a nest of the day-lilies Aerith had once grown.