Chapter Text
The classroom is dark.
A flash of yellow blurs past the window. Outside, feathers fall in a slow spiral. Inside, a chalk stick is snapped in half—white fragments scattered at someone’s feet.
When Kyoko looks up, the figure standing by the board has a face she almost recognizes. Almost.
A second mouth, a heavier brow, something older than it should be.
It’s gone all too soon
Kyoko doesn’t know when the dreams started. Not really.
Sometimes, she wakes before dawn with the feeling of something she should remember clawing at the inside of her skull.
She blinks sleepily at the ceiling, her breath shallow in the silence, then turns to the side. Her fingers fumble for pen and paper. It's still dark—too early—but despite the hour, her hand finds the notebook. Her other hand trembles with sleep as she scratches ink across the page. The characters are messy and barely readable, but she doesn’t stop—habit overtaking the urge to slumber.
Once the pen lifts, final words written, Kyoko clumsily places them atop her nightstand, rolling over to allow the clutches of sleep to take her again.
The scribbles never make sense—not at first. Never in the moment. Sometimes not for weeks.
But this time, it’s the very next day.
Kyoko sits in her seat, quietly aligning her pencil and red crayon side-by-side atop her desk.
Her world is quieter now. Not because her classmates are silent—they aren’t. Naruto chatters to Shikamaru, who isn’t even pretending to listen. Someone giggles too loudly. Kiba barks, literally.
But the quiet Kyoko notices is different.
It’s the silence of a faucet that no longer runs, of no one humming in the kitchen, of the absence of coughing echoing down the hallway in the early morning. No one tells her goodnight anymore, or reminds her to tuck in the corners of her blanket. Her mother’s absence doesn’t scream—it simply lingers.
She often wakes up tired, the weight of dreams still clinging to her lashes, the morning light too sharp, too fast.
Her fingers stop fidgeting when Sasuke takes his seat beside her, wordless as always. They don’t talk much, but there’s an understanding in the silence they share. She never asks questions he doesn’t want to answer. And he doesn’t ask why she watches people the way she does—like she’s waiting for a memory to catch up to their face.
The bell rings, and she looks up at the board—Iruka-Sensei enters with a tired sigh, folders cradled in the crook of his elbow. He drops them onto his desk with a thud before turning to the board.
Kyoko prepares to take out her homework from last night, hand reaching for her backpack, and her classmates do the same. It’s routine, after all.
Thunk.
Then—
“Look, Sensei! A bird…!”
Blonde whisks by and Kyoko whips her head around, eyes wide, a flicker of a memory flashing in her thoughts. Naruto has his hands on the window, and several students scramble up from their seats to peer through the glass. Kyoko inhales sharply, mind turning to the plain notebook sitting at the bottom of her backpack.
There are feathers stuck to the pane. A brown bird had flown headfirst into the window, now gone—only the soft descent of plumage remains.
Her hand clenches around her pencil.
She looks down at the floor. No chalk yet.
She watches the rest of the day. Just in case.
That night, she sleeps soundly.
The next morning, Iruka holds up a broken nub of chalk between two fingers and clicks his tongue in frustration. White dust powders the floor.
Kyoko's chest tightens—just a little.
Her grandmother visits twice a month. The old woman sits on the porch with her, shelling beans, correcting her form with a light flick on the back of her knuckles. It is a nice change of pace from the colder behavior her grandparents had exhibited before her mother had died. Kyoko’s grandmother teaches her to stir rice without sticking, to fold clothes with precision, to light incense on her mother’s memorial when the wind is low.
Strict, but not unkind. Her presence is the only thing that makes the house feel whole again, even for a few hours.
“You are a quiet child,” her grandmother says once, examining Kyoko’s latest handwriting practice.
“I like quiet,” Kyoko replies.
The old woman hums. “The quiet ones always know more than they say.”
On Kyoko’s ninth birthday, the old woman hands her a black ribbon.
“To remember her,” she says.
Kyoko ties it around her wrist—her grandmother clicks her tongue at the placement.
“It would look far more proper in your hair, if you would grow it out.”
Kyoko only shrugs. She likes her hair short. Just long enough to brush the nape of her neck.
Sometimes they prepare simple meals together. Miso soup. Rice balls. Oyakodon. None of it ever tastes quite the same as her mother’s.
Mostly, though, Kyoko cooks alone.
Her father is usually gone before sunrise, home after dark. He doesn’t ask about her day, but he checks her test scores. He flips through her training evaluations. Once, she left a bento uncovered and came home to find it in the trash. He didn’t say anything—just left a note: Try again.
He never used to write notes. He used to yell.
Strangely, she misses it. At least yelling meant he was paying attention.
Now, he praises her only in numbers. And when she cooks, she makes enough for two. Not because she wants to—but because she’s expected to.
It’s tradition, after all. Yet, Kyoko is pushed to be a shinobi in place of the son her father never had.
At night, after brushing her teeth and turning off all the lights except the candles on her desk, Kyoko writes in her notebook.
This notebook is for stories.
She flips to the last page:
The Boy in The River
The boy did not swim.
He stood in the shallows, water past his knees
Watching the minnows scatter.
He did not move, not even when the current tugged at his legs.
He waited. He waited until the water stilled enough
To see his own reflection.
But when it came, it wasn’t his face.
Kyoko pauses, staring at the last line. She taps her pencil against her chin
Boring, she thinks.
Kyoko shuts the notebook. The cover is pink, with a shining bird standing on a branch.
Next to it lies the other one: black-covered, heavier.
Her…other notebook.
She flips to last night’s entry. The handwriting wobbles, slanted and shaky—half-asleep:
Two eyes in a cracked mirror.
They don’t blink together anymore.
She doesn’t bother trying to decipher it. It’s not a story. It’s just…something else.
Page after page of fragmented things:
“Kiba drops ramen tray, lands face-first.”
“Sakura forgets umbrella, gets soaked.”
“Iruka gets quiet on the fifth of every month.”
They don’t make sense until they do. And when they do, she doesn’t know if she’s remembering them, or if she’d always known.
Sometimes, Kyoko uses it. Sometimes, she doesn’t. It’s not power, she thinks. It’s…keeping track. The notebook isn't magical, but it is strange. And Kyoko doesn’t understand it either—she just writes things down because the alternative is forgetting them completely.
The candles are blown out and Kyoko pulls the covers of her bed to her chin.
Kyoko settles quickly at her seat—today it is not taken—quickly flipping through her notebook and squinting at her writing from the night before.
The pencil broke.
She glances at her bag. She had broken the lead yesterday, but didn’t realize. Not important.
Crow on the windowsill.
Her gaze shifts to the glass panel sitting to the left of her. There’s nothing there. Could be today. Could be tomorrow. Could be the same crow.
Kiba trips. Third stair.
Oddly specific. She files that one away in the back of her mind.
Teacher’s nose bleeds.
That’s new. No one’s had one yet. She checks for tissues in her pencil case, just in case.
Blue ribbon.
She always wears black. Maybe someone else—? Ah, across the room, Hinata fiddles with the tie on her wrist. Blue.
Forgot the rice. Again.
She forgot it last week. She remembers because she got dizzy halfway through sparring. Old news—Kyoko crosses it off.
Kyoko closes the notebook quietly. Sometimes it’s like a mirror turned sideways, she thinks. You don’t realize what it reflects until it already has.
She shakes her head and instead tries to pay attention to the board as Iruka-Sensei begins writing today’s date on the chalkboard.
It’s Wednesday. Sparring day.
“Alright, up. Line up outside,” he says, placing the chalk back on the base of the board.
Kyoko rises with the others, stepping into line as they make their way toward the stairs. She glances sideways at Kiba, just ahead of her, his usual cocky stride already bounding toward the steps.
Her eyes lower to his feet.
Third stair.
“Hey, Kyoko, you alright back—”
Kiba’s heel catches the edge, just like she knew it would. Before he can fall, her hand snaps forward, fingers catching the back of his collar.
“W-whoa!” he yelps, arms flailing as he regains his balance. “What the—?”
Releasing him before he’s fully steady, Kyoko steps around him without a word.
“Jeez…thanks, I guess. I owe you. How’d you…”
But she’s already moving down the hall, head ducked.
Her brow twitches when she feels a gaze burning a hole through her. Not Kiba.
Sasuke doesn’t say anything. He never does. But Kyoko can feel his stare, sharp and measured, like a thread being pulled tight.
She exhales through her nose and mentally crosses the line off her list, following the rest of the class outside to where an empty training field stands—a large patch of padded dirt split into two sections. One with a ring and one with dummies. There’s of course the occasional weapons rack lined up on the edge. Iruka-Sensei is already in front of one, patting the rack with his left hand.
His eyes scan the group before clapping once to draw their attention.
“Pairs today. Watch your spacing, mind the footwork, and—” he holds up a handful of rubber practice kunai, “—we’ll be rotating between sparring and trapwork today, so don’t lag behind.”
A couple groans arise from the group.
“You think your enemies will give you a break just because you’re tired?” Iruka exclaims, but there’s a hint of humor in his tone. “Let’s move.”
He divides the class into two groups. One heads to the main sparring ring, the other toward a stretch of training dummies and low, wooden tripwire posts. The latter will be setting up and disarming simple traps under his supervision.
Kyoko ends up in the second group.
She crouches beside soft dirt and wire, fingers hovering just above the trigger loop before shifting slightly to the left. She doesn’t hesitate.
“Not bad,” Iruka mutters, passing by. “But you didn’t even check the edges. How’d you know the wire wouldn’t snap?”
“I saw the knot,” Kyoko says softly, eyes on the wire’s base. “It was newer than the rest.”
Iruka blinks. It’s a small detail. A good one. Maybe luck, or maybe not.
He moves on, but glances over his shoulder once.
Kyoko lingers at the edge of the training field after drills, wiping the dust from her palms onto her shorts. The sun dips low, its shadow looming across the dirt and its shine catching on the metal gleam of kunai lined neatly on the racks. Around her, classmates chatter and laugh, releasing the pent-up tension that comes after practice.
She doesn’t join them. Instead, her gaze drifts, not aimlessly, to the boy a few paces away.
Sometimes, when Kyoko looks too long at someone, she sees something strange.
A flicker, a ghost—like a second face layered over the first. A scar across the cheek. A sharper jaw.
On Naruto once, she’d seen older hands, calloused and steady in ways they weren’t now, always flailing around with excitement. On Hinata, an expression that carried a weight her soft voice couldn’t hold yet.
But lately, it’s Sasuke she notices most.
There’s a sharpness to the ghost that lingers over him. His face is older, jaw cut harsher, mouth set in a tight, angry line. His eyes aren’t the eyes of a twelve-year-old.
When she blinks, it’s gone. But the impression stays.
He looks like someone older, Kyoko thinks.
When she stares too long, it feels like he’s already survived something none of them can name.
She never asks.
But when they’re paired for target drills, he doesn’t mind if she stands close.
And when she corrects his kunai grip without comment, he doesn’t snap at her the way she’d think he might.
They are not friends, at least she wouldn’t call it that. But they exist beside each other comfortably—an odd sort of understanding in the quiet.
And when Iruka calls the class back to order, Kyoko glances once more at Sasuke’s profile, committing it to memory. Not for now, but for later.
Because sometimes, it feels like she’s only ever waiting for the moment when the ghosts finally catch up to the faces she knows.
Iruka-Sensei notices too, apparently. Not the ghosts, but the way Kyoko watches.
At first, it’s just a furrow in his brow when she dodges a shuriken half a second too early—like a prediction rather than quick observation. Then it's when she sidesteps a tripwire trap she couldn’t have possibly seen during the rigging drills from last week. Or how she jots things down after lunch in her second notebook—never the pretty one with the bird on the cover, but the one with plain paper and dog-eared corners.
“Your reaction time’s improved a lot,” he says one afternoon, casually.
Kyoko shrugs, brushing an eraser shaving from her desk. “I just noticed the wire was too tight.”
He smiles, but it's the kind of smile adults wear when they’re filing something away.
Kyoko shifts her gaze back to her notebook. She isn’t lying.
It’s not foresight. It’s recognition. She knows what’s going to happen—she just doesn’t know when.
In a dimly lit council room within the Hokage tower, paper scrolls, files, and folders lie stacked across a long table. Four figures sit around them.
“Nara heir. Akimichi heir. The Yamanaka heiress. The Hyuuga,” a man seethes through narrowed eyes—well, eye.
“...need I even have to remind you all of the sole survivor and heir to the Uchiha name?”
Hiruzen slots his fingers together and sets his chin upon them, in a knowing pose.
“Your point is plenty clear, Danzo. Calm yourself.” The old man’s voice is weary, and he itches to grab the pipe sitting idly on the desk in front of him.
“It isn’t a matter of calming down,” Danzo bites out. “The fact is, we need an apprentice this year. Konoha is not in the same position as it was a decade ago—and we knew this time would come eventually. We were lax in our foresight. A whole graduating class of clan heirs—and yet not a single candidate?” The room falls into silence, and the atmosphere is chilling.
Hiruzen unfolds his hands, voice low.
“Don’t turn children into chess pieces, Danzo. This isn’t Itachi’s generation.”
Danzo’s laugh is dry, bitter.
“It’s worse. These children know more. They’re learning silence from their clans.”
A flick of white cloth interrupts him.
“Enough.”
Koharu raises her hand, and the room stills, falling into a tense quiet once more.
She flips through the files with practiced speed, expression slowly souring until—
“This one,” she says, tapping the corner. “Takahashi Kyoko.”
“No clan affiliations,” Koharu recites. “Mother recently deceased. Father, genin. Grandparents— Takahashi family, but neutral.”
The folder is slid across the table to a spectacled man, shawl loosely fitted across his form.
“Academy performance: above average. Modest chakra output. Quiet. Writing hobbies suggest observational lean. No disciplinary issues,” Homura hums, eyes scrutinizing the small black text as he reads.
He flips further. “Teacher remarks from Umino Iruka: ‘notices things before they happen.’”
Koharu leans back slightly, folding her hands. “Subtle. Diligent. Doesn't draw attention. Could be overlooked—”
“—but not by us,” Danzo finishes, voice low.
“She won’t question orders,” he adds. “That’s all we need.”
“And she’ll be close to the others. Close enough to observe. Close enough to report,” Homura comments with quiet finality.
Hiruzen says nothing at first. He exhales slowly. Then—
“She’s still a child.”
Danzo lifts his eye from the folder. “Exactly.”
Kyoko can’t remember the last time the classroom felt this loud.
Two seats in front of her, Naruto is buzzing with excitement—or anxiousness—she can’t tell. Kiba shakes his leg below the desk to her left, a small yipping noise resounding from the boy’s hood. Akamaru, the newest addition to their class, is restless, it seems.
Even Shikamaru has lifted his head from the desk, mumbling complaints about how troublesome this all is. The graduation exam is over, paper tests graded and practical tests concluded. Iruka-Sensei’s voice carries over the hum of conversation as he reads out the names of those who passed.
“Takahashi Kyoko.”
She exhales—quietly—and sets her pencil down. Not that there was ever a question. Her substitution had been clean, her hand seals steady. Not flashy, not spectacular. Just competent enough to pass. That’s how Kyoko prefers things—quietly, without fuss.
Kyoko flips open her notebook, idly skimming a half-lucid entry she doesn’t remember writing:
A door closes. Another clicks open. Not all exams are written.
Her gaze lingers on the words until she feels a soft nudge against her right elbow. Lifting her eyes, Kyoko purses her lips in a confused expression toward Sasuke.
“...Sensei’s calling for you.” The spoken words are quiet as always.
Her head turns from Sasuke to Iruka who, sure enough, is gesturing his hand at her to come over.
Kyoko feels something pulling at the back of her mind telling her to pack up her things, so she does. Her intuition isn't often wrong.
Except, her bag feels heavier on her shoulders as she trudges down the stairs. Quickly glancing at the large window by Iruka’s desk, Kyoko feels as though her reflection lags behind.
“Iruka-Sensei?”
“Ah, Kyoko.” His eyes have a darker look to them today. His gaze lingers on her bag before he outstretches his hand.
The gleam of the Konoha headband shines directly into her eyes.
“You are being summoned to the Hokage’s office. This instant.”
Kyoko hesitates before taking the headband and shoving it haphazardly into the pocket of her shorts. Her brow furrows.
“Yes, Sensei.”
The hallway feels longer than she remembers.
Kyoko’s sandals whisper against polished wood, each step swallowed by the silence of the upper floors. The hum of the Academy is gone, replaced by faint torchlight flickering against stone walls. Her fingers twitch against her thigh, restless. She rubs her thumb against her palm, grounding herself.
She remembers another line from her notebook.
Written two weeks ago: A door opens where it shouldn’t.
Like a direct call and response to the entry she read earlier.
Her stomach knots.
When she reaches the office, the guards stationed at the door step aside without a word. She pushes it open, the hinges creaking.
The Hokage’s office smells faintly of ink and pipe smoke.
Hiruzen Sarutobi sits behind his desk, hands folded neatly atop a stack of files. His eyes are warm, but lined with weariness—the kind of expression that makes him look older than his years. Beside him stands an elderly man, shawl draped loosely around his shoulders, posture rigid. He glances at her once before moving to exit the office. Homura, she recalls from Mizuki-Sensei’s lecture on Konoha - Modern Politics.
And near the window, almost swallowed by shadow, stands a man Kyoko doesn’t recognize.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. A coat draped like a second skin. His face is half-lit by the pale light of dusk creeping in through the blinds, but the heavy scars crossing his face are unmistakable. His eyes—dark and sharp as a blade—track her the moment she steps inside.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.
Kyoko feels pinned in place. He’s already measured her, she realizes. Already catalogued her from head to toe, without a word.
“Takahashi Kyoko,” Hiruzen begins, his voice steady, almost gentle. “You’ve passed your graduation exam. But there’s…another matter we must discuss.”
Her hands curl into the bottom of her shirt. The headband weighs heavy in her pocket.
“It’s a rare path,” the Hokage continues, watching her carefully. “Quiet. Demanding. But we believe you’re suited for it.”
The man by the window says nothing. Just nods once, almost imperceptibly. It’s enough to make her feel small.
Kyoko swallows. Her mind flickers—unbidden—to her black notebook tucked in deep inside her bag. Three months ago, she’d written one word in her half-asleep scrawl. She hadn’t known why. It had seemed meaningless at the time.
Apprentice.
Now it makes sense.
Her chest tightens, but she stays still, steady. She wonders what tomorrow’s page will say.