Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing Miyuki remembered was the weight. Not on her chest or her arms, but in her very bones — a heaviness that made every breath feel borrowed, every beat of her heart uncertain. Her body was too small, too fragile. Her skin was pale as snow, her hair a shock of white against the softness of blankets, and her eyes—when they managed to open—reflected a vivid green that looked almost too alive for such a frail vessel.

She had died once already. She remembered that much. In her previous life, she had been ordinary, unremarkable, and unloved in the way that mattered. Her parents had measured affection in exchange for achievement, their smiles conditional, their approval bartered like currency. Love had been a transaction she could never quite afford.

And then—this.

She had woken in the arms of a woman with warm eyes and trembling hands, who wept simply because her child was breathing. Her child. Not a tool, not an investment, but a daughter. Mebuki Haruno cradled her as if she were something miraculous, despite the doctors’ quiet warnings of weakness, of frailty, of how slim her chances were.

Beside her, a man with a too-loud laugh and gentle clumsiness leaned close, brushing her tiny white curls with a calloused thumb. Kizashi Haruno didn’t hide the worry in his eyes, but his smile was unwavering. “She’s beautiful,” he had whispered, as though daring the world to argue.

Miyuki hadn’t known what to do with that. Even as an infant, even through the haze of rebirth, something inside her recoiled at the sheer simplicity of it. They didn’t ask her to earn their love. They didn’t tally her worth in victories. They just held her, fed her, rocked her through nights where her lungs rattled with weakness.
—-

The house smelled faintly of ink and wood shavings from Kizashi’s trade, and the air often carried the gentle sound of her mother humming as she worked.

Her body betrayed her constantly. Fevers came without warning, leaving her weak and trembling. Her chest rattled when she breathed too deeply, and there were days she could not lift herself from her futon. In her old life, sickness would have meant irritation, disappointment, perhaps even contempt. Here, it only meant her parents sat closer.

Mebuki would sit at her bedside, a damp cloth cooling Miyuki’s brow, whispering stories about heroes and monsters as if they were secrets meant only for her. “When you’re stronger, you’ll see the world yourself,” she promised, though her hand lingered against Miyuki’s cheek as if she feared the girl might slip away before that day came.

Kizashi had a way of filling silence with laughter. He would carry her out into the garden on his back when her legs couldn’t bear weight, pointing to the clouds with an exaggerated seriousness.
“See that one? Definitely a rabbit. No, wait—maybe a fierce shinobi. What do you think, snowflake?”

Miyuki had never had a nickname before. In her old life, she’d been little more than a surname. Here, she was his snowflake, fragile but cherished.

On better days, he brought puzzles from the markets, little wooden contraptions that clicked and twisted until they unlocked. “Keep your mind sharp,” he would tell her, grinning, “so you can beat me at these one day.” She always did. He would pretend to be shocked, groaning loud enough for the neighbors to hear, but his pride in her was unmistakable.

The strangest thing was the way they looked at her during the ordinary moments. When she strummed at the small guitar Kizashi had bartered for, Mebuki’s eyes softened as though the music alone was proof of a miracle. When Miyuki managed to eat a whole meal without fatigue, Kizashi clapped like she’d won a tournament.

It unsettled her at first. Love without conditions was a thing she did not know how to accept. Surely it would change, she thought. Surely they would grow tired of her weakness, the way her old family had.

But Mebuki only kissed her temple after each coughing fit, whispering, “You’re strong, my Miyuki.”
And Kizashi would lift her in his arms, declaring, “Snowflake beats the odds again!”

At first, she hated it. Hated the small, sickly body that imprisoned her, hated the sharp reminder of how powerless she was. Too much spirit, not enough flesh. A soul burning too brightly for such a dim vessel.

But in the quiet moments, when Mebuki hummed lullabies and Kizashi carried her around the garden so she could see the blossoms she was too weak to touch, Miyuki began to wonder if maybe—just maybe—this new life would be different.

Here, she was not a disappointment or an investment. She was simply Miyuki Haruno.

And for the first time in two lifetimes, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The village of Konoha was alive with movement, the streets bustling with merchants, children, and villagers going about their daily business. Miyuki walked beside her mama, her pale fingers curled around Mebuki’s hand, green eyes taking in everything with keen attention.

Merchants shouted over each other, balancing trays of goods and haggling over prices. Children darted between their parents’ legs, laughing and jostling each other as they ran to the fountains or the market stalls. Ninjas walked in small groups, chatting quietly, their expressions calm but alert, and Miyuki watched them carefully, noting the way they carried themselves.

In the midst of it, she caught sight of a man with golden hair moving gracefully through the crowd, accompanied by a tall red-haired woman who smiled at a passing child. Miyuki didn’t know their names yet, of course. She only knew they stood out — their presence calm and warm, like sunlight breaking through the ordinary bustle of the streets.

Miyuki pressed her lips together, studying them from afar. There was something almost magical about the way they moved through the crowd, unshaken, observing without haste. She wished she could move like that — confident, strong, capable of walking without tiring, of holding her head high.

But she didn’t. Her body was delicate, easily fatigued, prone to sudden weakness. She had learned early to swallow her frustrations and hide them, lest she worry her mama and papa.

So she walked alongside Mebuki, silent, thoughtful, her mind cataloging the small details of village life: the tilt of a merchant’s hat as he bowed to a customer, the small smiles exchanged between neighbors, the way sunlight caught the edges of the rooftops. She was a quiet observer, a child aware of how the world moved and yet kept apart from it, tucked safely in the love of her parent

⸻

The path home wound past the Academy grounds, and even before they reached the corner, Miyuki could hear the sound of it — wooden kunai clattering, instructors barking orders, the shrill cries of children straining to impress. When they turned the bend, she slowed, her green eyes fastening on the wide practice yard where boys and girls her age darted about in flurries of movement.

Her steps faltered. For a heartbeat, she let herself imagine what it would be like to stand there too — forehead protector glinting in the sun, her hair tied back for sparring, the crowd of children laughing with her instead of without her. The longing curled tight in her chest like a fist.

“Miyuki.”

Her mama’s voice was gentle, but not blind. Mebuki had noticed the look in her daughter’s eyes.

“Do you wish to be a ninja?”

The question made Miyuki stiffen. She knew it was impossible — her body fragile, her health unreliable. Even if she could train, she would only be tolerated because the war needed warm bodies to throw at enemies. And hadn’t she seen little Uchiha Itachi? Four years younger than her, yet already being polished into a weapon. That wasn’t a life. That was a sentence.

Still, her throat tightened as she turned to her mama. Mebuki’s face was composed, stern as always, but her eyes — her eyes were soft enough to undo her. Mama would give her the world if she asked. Papa too. And wasn’t that the cruelest part?

So Miyuki put on the mask of her own making: spoiled princess, imperious and untouchable.

“Please, Mama,” she said with a dismissive flick of her hand. “Ninja work is all sweat and dirt. Hours of running in circles, throwing sharp things, tumbling about in the mud. I’d sooner lose myself in Papa’s puzzles or finish the ending of my new story than waste all that time. Why should I sully my hands with something so… pedestrian?”

Her voice carried the sharp edge of a child too clever for her own good, too indulged to fear speaking plainly. But under it, she felt the bitter twist of truth — the envy that made her chest ache.

Mebuki raised a brow, unimpressed, though there was the faintest curve of a smile at the corner of her mouth. “Pedestrian, is it? And yet, you do enjoy our mother–daughter pottery classes. You could make friends at the Academy too. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“I have friends,” Miyuki countered swiftly. “You and Papa. That is enough.”

“Enough for now,” Mebuki teased, nudging her shoulder gently. “But perhaps not forever. And besides—” her smile turned sly “—maybe I need more friends. Don’t you think your poor Mama deserves some?”

Miyuki huffed like a cat disturbed from her nap, though her lips betrayed her with a twitch of amusement. Her mother always knew how to blunt her sharpness, to ease the bitterness she tried so carefully to keep hidden.

And so she said nothing more, holding her mama’s hand a little tighter instead, as the sounds of the Academy faded behind them.

That earned her a soft laugh, Mebuki ruffling her white hair. For a moment, Miyuki almost forgot the ache in her chest as she listened to the other children training behind the Academy gates. Almost.

—————-

The smell of broth simmering filled the kitchen, steam curling from the pot as Mebuki chopped vegetables with brisk, steady strokes. Miyuki stood nearby, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, carefully peeling carrots. She liked helping her mama — it made her feel useful, less like the fragile doll everyone tiptoed around.

But halfway through her task, the room tilted. Her hand stilled on the knife.

“Mama…” she whispered, the word catching in her throat as the world blurred at the edges.

In an instant, Mebuki abandoned her chopping, the knife clattering onto the counter. She caught Miyuki by the shoulders, her stern composure cracking into raw fear. “Miyuki! Sit down—no, lie down. Come on, sweetheart.”

“I can still help,” Miyuki protested weakly, clinging to the peeler as if it were proof of her worth. “I don’t want to stop—”

“Hush.” Mebuki’s voice was gentle but firm, the kind of command that brooked no argument. She scooped Miyuki up with surprising strength, carrying her down the hall despite the girl’s squirming protests. “You’ve already helped plenty. Mama is very grateful, but what I need most is for my precious girl to rest.”

Miyuki’s head lolled against her mother’s shoulder, exhaustion pressing down on her like a heavy blanket. She hated this — hated being the weak link, the one who had to be protected. Still, she breathed in her mama’s warmth, letting herself be tucked into bed like the child she was.

“You’re too good to me, Mama,” she mumbled, words slurring as sleep crept in.

“And you’re too good to us,” Mebuki whispered back, brushing cool fingers across her forehead. “Now sleep.”

Miyuki drifted off, but the edges of her consciousness lingered. From her bed, she half-heard the low murmur of voices when her father came home.

“She had another spell,” Mebuki’s voice trembled, though she tried to keep it steady. “Kizashi, what if—”

“Don’t,” he cut in softly. “Don’t go there. I’ll take time off. Work can wait.”

“We can’t afford that.” Mebuki’s voice broke then, frustration and fear spilling out in equal measure. “The war has driven up prices, the shops are charging more for the same things. We have bills to pay. You already do everything — I should be working too, not…” Her words faltered, thick with unshed tears. “Not leaning on you for everything. I should be stronger. For her.”

There was a pause. Then Kizashi’s voice, steady, unwavering: “You and Miyuki are more important than anything else. Let me talk to my family — they can help if it comes to it. Don’t carry this alone.”

Mebuki gave a shaky laugh, and Miyuki imagined her mama’s stern face crumpling, just for a moment. “You always make it sound so easy. But it isn’t. Not when I can’t even—” Her words choked off.

Miyuki’s father’s tone softened further, the way it only did with her mama. “Then maybe we find another way. Hire a genin during the day. We get a civilian discount through the Hokage’s office. Miyuki doesn’t need much watching — just someone nearby, in case she has another spell. That way you don’t have to shoulder everything, and I don’t have to worry when I’m away.”

Mebuki sniffled, the sound breaking Miyuki’s heart even as she drifted deeper into sleep.

The last thing she heard before slumber claimed her was her mother whispering, “I only wish I could give her more.”

And in her dreams, Miyuki wanted to tell them both — Mama, Papa — you already have.

Chapter Text

The doorbell chimed, and Miyuki lifted her head from the cushions by the window. Three young figures stepped into the Haruno household, and she immediately stiffened.

The first was a boy with dark hair and sharp, measuring eyes. His posture was calm, deliberate — the kind of presence that made her instinctively straighten her back. Shisui Uchiha.

Behind him, a girl with soft brown hair stepped lightly, her eyes downcast, her hands clasped nervously in front of her. “H-Hello, Miyuki,” she murmured, voice hesitant, almost pleading. Ringo Meiō. Too gentle, certainly too pliable.

The third, a boy with tense shoulders and an impatient expression, gave a curt nod. “We’re here to keep an eye on you,” he said flatly. Kagami Yamanaka. Typical clan ninja arrogance.

Miyuki closed her book slowly, her green eyes flicking between them. She spoke with polite precision, her voice smooth and controlled. “Thank you, Papa says I should welcome you. Mama too. I’ll be… considerate, of course.”

Shisui’s dark gaze swept over her, unreadable but steady. “Good morning, Miyuki. We’re just here to make sure you’re safe.”

Miyuki inclined her head lightly. Polite enough, for now. She returned to her book the moment her parents left the room, pretending the three nin didn’t exist.

“Um… Miyuki?” Ringo’s soft voice trembled. “Do you… want to, um, talk or—”

“No.” Miyuki’s tone was calm, detached. “I don’t require assistance unless I am in distress. Otherwise, you are simply present.” Her eyes never lifted from her book.

Kagami snorted, annoyed. “You could at least acknowledge us. We’re trying to do a job here.”

Miyuki let a faint smile tug at her lips. “I am aware of your presence. That is sufficient. I am capable of managing myself, within the limits of my condition.”

Ringo shifted nervously, blinking rapidly. “I… I just wanted to be nice. That’s all.”

Miyuki’s green eyes sharpened ever so slightly. Pushover, yet sincere. Annoying, but harmless. “If you were s real Shinobi, you would stand up to me. I expect nothing less of you.” She returned to her book, letting her words hang like a pinprick of awareness, leaving Ringo blushing and silent.

Shisui’s dark eyes followed her with quiet scrutiny, but he did not speak. He said nothing, waiting, professional. Miyuki could feel his attention, but she ignored it. She had learned long ago how to tolerate observation without engagement.

Kagami muttered something under his breath, clearly frustrated, but Ringo didn’t respond. Miyuki’s lips twitched with a faint amusement she did not bother hiding. The room fell into an orderly quiet, the three shinobi maintaining professional composure, Miyuki maintaining her icy distance.

She knew her behavior was childish — indulgent even — but she also knew that they only needed to be aware of her condition. That was all. She would not make them part of her life.

The day unfolded slowly, measured by the small tasks Miyuki allowed herself to undertake.

She moved through the kitchen with quiet precision, chopping vegetables and preparing her own meal. The three lingered nearby, but she did not offer them a single bite. Not once did she ask if they wanted to eat. They were observers, not companions. She had learned early that food was hers, work was hers, and interruptions were unnecessary.

Ringo Meiō hovered uncertainly at the doorway, hands folded politely. “Um… Miyuki, do you—do you want me to help with that?”

Miyuki glanced at her briefly, green eyes sharp, unreadable. “No. I am perfectly capable, thank you.” Her tone was firm, polite, but final. Ringo’s shoulders slumped slightly, yet she did not speak again, leaving Miyuki to her rhythm.

After finishing her meal, Miyuki retreated to her cushion by the window. She pulled a book into her lap, letting the soft sunlight illuminate the pages. Words flowed into her mind as smoothly as water over stones, yet she could feel the subtle awareness of eyes on her — Shisui’s calm, Kagami’s impatience, Ringo’s hesitant worry. She ignored them, as she always did, letting her imagination carry her far from the present.

Once the story ended, she donned her oversized sunhat and stepped outside to tend the garden. The umbrella she carried dwarfed her small frame, but she maneuvered it with careful dexterity, protecting her pale skin from the sun. She pruned, watered, and inspected every plant with meticulous attention, her tongue occasionally peeking out in concentration.

Ringo hovered again, tentative. “I-I could water the flowers…?”

Miyuki’s lips curved into a faint, sharp smile. “No. I am aware of the water schedule. You may observe if you like.” Her voice was courteous, but unyielding. Ringo’s blush deepened, and she retreated a few steps, hands still folded.

The afternoon passed in a flurry of domestic diligence. Miyuki swept the floors, polished the windows, and arranged the furniture to her exacting standards, all while the genin stood in quiet observation. She made no effort to hide her independence; they were unnecessary, except to step in if she faltered. And she had no intention of faltering today.

By evening, the house smelled faintly of clean wood, fresh herbs, and the lingering aroma of Miyuki’s meal. She paused at the window once more, letting her gaze rest on the garden she had tended. It was her world, carefully controlled, ordered, and hers alone — no matter how close the genin stood, no matter how polite their concern.

And yet, in the quiet of her mind, she acknowledged the tiny, reluctant truth: it was not their presence she disliked, but the reminder of her own fragility.

————

Evening sunlight spilled into the kitchen when Kizashi’s footsteps echoed through the hallway. Miyuki, still perched on her cushion by the table, looked up, her chest warming at the familiar sound.

“Ah, my little flower,” Kizashi said, grinning as he held out a small bouquet of wildflowers he had picked along the way. “A flower for my flower… though I hope I didn’t pick the wrong kind. Wouldn’t want my flower to be allergic to her own bouquet!”

Miyuki blinked, a faint, reluctant smile tugging at her lips. “Thank you, Papa,” she said softly, reaching for the bouquet. Even a corny joke couldn’t diminish the warmth she felt in his presence.

He crouched slightly, keeping his grin bright. “So, my little lady of the household — how was your day? Did it live up to the legend of the Haruno household’s most formidable flower?”

Miyuki pressed her lips into a thin line, considering carefully. “Tolerable,” she said crisply, the word perfectly measured.

“Tolerable!” Kizashi exclaimed, throwing his head back in exaggerated shock. “High praise coming from you, my little perfectionist. I’ll take it. Next, we’ll aim for ‘pleasantly satisfactory.’” He ruffled her hair gently, and Miyuki allowed herself a tiny, fleeting moment of enjoyment.

Turning to the three shinobi in the corner, he clasped his hands together in mock seriousness. “And to you fine young shinobi — thank you for watching over my little flower today. I know this type of mission isn’t exactly… what you trained for.”

Shisui inclined his head, calm and reassuring. “It’s no problem, sir. Miyuki’s safety is important. We’re happy to help.”

Kagami muttered something under his breath but didn’t protest further. Ringo Meiō shifted nervously, glancing down.

Kizashi scratched the back of his neck with an exaggerated sheepish grin. “I must admit, I’m a little embarrassed. I had to pull a few strings to get you three here — and I hope you don’t think poorly of me. I promise, my next request will come with a full dessert tray as compensation!”

Miyuki’s brow furrowed slightly, tilting her head. She didn’t fully understand the exchange, but pieces clicked into place. Papa asked a favor… but why? Her mind cataloged it quietly, storing the observation for later.

Kizashi returned his attention to her, eyes sparkling with warmth. “And you, my little flower… did you make any friends with the three of them today?”

Miyuki’s green eyes flicked toward the corner where the genin stood. Her lips curved in a faint, sharp smile. “Friends?” she said, her tone deliberately cool. “I tolerate their presence. That is more than sufficient.”

Kizashi chuckled softly, shaking his head as he looked at the three genin. “Ah, don’t take her words too seriously. She’s just playing coy — it’s her love language,” he said cheerfully.

Turning back to Miyuki, he crouched slightly, his grin bright and warm. “You know, my little lady, it would make me very happy to see you make a few friends. Even if they’re only temporary companions, the world is more pleasant with people to share it with.”

Miyuki pressed her lips together, a faint blush brushing her cheeks, but she didn’t argue further. Temporary companions… she thought, how quaint. Still, she allowed herself a small nod, her father’s warmth softening the edges of her sharpness.

Shisui inclined his head respectfully, and even Kagami’s frown softened. Ringo Meiō’s nervous hands twitched slightly, a hopeful light in her eyes. Kizashi’s cheerful energy filled the room like sunlight, and for the first time that day, Miyuki let herself relax just a little, feeling the ease of her father’s presence around her while the shinobi remained quietly observant.

————

The morning sun spilled over the garden as Miyuki stepped carefully along the stone path, oversized sunhat shading her delicate features. She paused as Ringo Meiō approached, watering can in hand.

“Good morning, Miyuki,” Ringo said softly, hands clasped nervously around the handle. “Would you like me to… um, help you with the flowers today?”

Miyuki’s green eyes swept over her briefly. “Very well,” she said, gesturing with a delicate hand. “But only you. I do not require the company of the others.”

Ringo’s face brightened, and she stepped forward, carefully mimicking Miyuki’s precise movements as they tended to the garden together. For the first time since the genin had arrived, Miyuki allowed herself to relax, letting the soft presence of Ringo ease the tension she carried like armor.

Later, they sat at a small table under the shade of a blossoming tree, delicate porcelain cups of tea in hand. Ringo poured gently, her voice soft as she chatted quietly. Miyuki listened, responding only when she chose, but the sharp edge in her tone softened in ways that surprised even herself.

Meanwhile, Shisui and Kagami lingered at a respectful distance. Miyuki’s gaze flicked toward them, and a wry smile curved her lips. “You know, I don’t really need the both of you hovering around,” she said pointedly. “Ringo can keep me company, or perhaps you could make a clone and leave it with me while you… do whatever it is shinobi do.”

Shisui’s eyes gleamed with quiet amusement. “Would you like to watch us train instead? That could be more interesting than merely standing by.”

Miyuki tilted her head, her green eyes narrowing slightly. “Watch? I thought ninjas were supposed to be discreet. Sounds to me like you want to show off.”

Kagami snorted, clearly annoyed. “Why must you always have something to say?”

Miyuki’s lips curved into a faint, sharp smile. “Better to have something to say than to have nothing at all.”

Shisui’s lips twitched with suppressed amusement. “Your father was right about you,” he teased lightly.

Miyuki blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Oh? And what exactly did my father say?”

Shisui exchanged a quick glance with Kagami and Ringo, who both looked like they knew far more than they intended to reveal. Ringo’s hands fidgeted nervously at her sides, while Kagami’s scowl deepened ever so slightly, though his eyes betrayed a hint of restrained humor.

Miyuki’s brow furrowed, lips pressing into a thin line. “Hmm. It seems you three have decided I am not to know. Very well.” She let out a sharp, amused huff. “Then just… wow me with some fancy ninja moves and leave your cryptic comments to yourselves.”

Shisui inclined his head, amusement glinting in his eyes. “As you wish, Miyuki-hime. Prepare to be impressed.”

Miyuki settled herself under the shade of the tree, umbrella propped beside her, green eyes bright and alert. Though she allowed herself to watch, a flicker of irritation lingered — why did they all seem to be in on something I wasn’t? But she pushed it aside, curiosity winning.

Ringo shuffled closer, placing a careful hand near hers. Miyuki didn’t move away. Small trust, she thought. Small toleration of company.

———

Miyuki’s green eyes followed every movement with meticulous attention, her small hands clasped neatly in her lap. Shisui moved first, precise, fluid, every motion measured yet effortless. She couldn’t help the tiny spark of admiration that flickered beneath her usual reserve. Impressive… almost too graceful for someone in D-rank training. Curious.

Kagami was next, moving with impatient energy. Each step was rushed, each hand sign a little too forceful. Miyuki’s lips curved into a thin, teasing line. Ah, yes. The textbook definition of overcompensation. If one could channel that energy into focus, perhaps he’d be half as effective. She let her eyes linger, just long enough for him to feel her gaze.

Ringo’s turn came slowly, tentative, her movements hesitant, almost delicate. Miyuki suppressed a small smirk. Oh, Ringo… bless her heart. If she moved any slower, I could read an entire novel before she finished a single sequence. Yet there was a certain charm in her care, a meticulousness that made Miyuki want to… correct her, in the most polite way possible.

When Ringo faltered, Miyuki’s lips twitched upward ever so slightly. Careful now… She tilted her head, wondering if she should whisper a small pointer, but decided against it. For now, observation would suffice.

She glanced at Kagami again. His impatience was almost comical, a sharp contrast to Shisui’s calm mastery. Typical, rushing through a simple exercise like life itself is a mission. Perhaps someone needs a gentle reminder that haste does not equal skill.

Despite herself, Miyuki felt a faint thrill watching the three of them. It was a rare thing, this mixture of motion, skill, and subtle personalities. Her lips pressed together to hide the smile forming; she wasn’t about to let them see her enjoyment. She was still, precise, analytical — a princess observing her court, noting strengths and weaknesses alike.

Yet, beneath her amusement, a shadow pressed against her chest. She knew too much. Shisui… Ringo… Kagami…

Miyuki’s mind buzzed with possibilities as she watched the three train. Shisui… he’s just a kid, like me. If only I could— The thought nearly escaped her lips: a warning, something to prepare him, something to change the terrible path she already knew lay ahead.

A sudden, stabbing headache cut through her thoughts, sharp and disorienting. She blinked, swaying slightly, and before she realized it, Shisui was at her side, steadying her with a firm hand.

“Careful, Miyuki,” he said quietly, his voice calm and grounding.

Ringo’s small hand hovered over Miyuki’s head, glowing faintly. Medic-nin? Miyuki’s voice whispered the words aloud before she could stop herself.

Ringo’s lips curved in a soft, reassuring smile. “Yes. That’s why I’m here on this mission.”

Miyuki’s green eyes flicked toward her. “You should be out in the war,” she muttered, meant only in her mind, but it slipped out nonetheless. “…Not babysitting a dying civilian girl.”

Shisui and Kagami exchanged a glance, and even Ringo paused mid-motion. It was a look Miyuki couldn’t decipher, and it made her frown slightly.

Ringo’s hand remained steady, the glow soft and comforting. “I became a ninja to protect my village,” she said gently, “and you, Miyuki, are part of this village. Protecting you… is part of my mission.”

For the first time, Miyuki noticed the quiet strength behind Ringo’s gentle demeanor — the kind of resolve that didn’t need flash or bravado. She had dismissed Ringo before as timid, unsure, almost overly careful. But now, seeing her focus and calm precision, Miyuki’s respect quietly stirred.

Shisui crouched slightly, his dark eyes meeting hers. “If you’re wondering why Kagami and I are here… that’s the reason as well. To watch over you.”

Miyuki’s frown deepened as she considered the larger picture. “The war… it’s taxing on the citizens. The Hokage probably wants to reassure the masses, keep them from panicking.”

Shisui’s lips twitched, a faint acknowledgment of her insight. “That may be true,” he said softly, “but it doesn’t make it any less meaningful.”

Miyuki snorted. “Meaningful? Politics? Is it ever meaningful?”

Shisui’s eyes flicked at her, a quiet amusement in his gaze. “You’re far too cynical for your age.”

“Perhaps,” Miyuki replied smoothly, “but you and Kagami and Ringo… you’re far too young to be fighting a war at your age. And yet here you are.” She paused, eyes flicking between them. “It’s not exactly fair, is it?”

The three genin exchanged brief glances again, a mixture of acknowledgment and quiet respect.

Chapter Text

The kitchen smelled of fresh herbs and simmering broth as Miyuki perched on a stool, her small hands gripping the edge of the counter. She had been intent on chopping vegetables when she realized that Shisui and Kagami were moving around her in a coordinated flurry, taking over tasks she normally prided herself on doing.

“I—wait! That’s not how you slice the carrots!” Miyuki exclaimed, green eyes wide. “You’re… doing it all wrong!”

Kagami’s brow furrowed as he adjusted his hold on a knife. “Doing it wrong? Miyuki, we’ve been trained to handle swords. It’s… precise.”

Miyuki tapped her fingers on the counter impatiently. “Precise? It’s not the way I do it. Look at that alignment! And don’t even get me started on how you stirred the broth—no, no, that’s too fast!”

Shisui leaned closer, his voice calm and measured. “Miyuki, listen. It doesn’t have to be your way to be effective. Sometimes, efficiency is better than perfection.”

She sniffed, crossing her arms. “Words won’t make the soup taste better. If you’re going to help, do it right.”

Ringo, hovering nearby with a quiet smile, added softly, “We’re not here to replace you, Miyuki. We just… make sure you don’t overdo it. You’ve already done enough for today.”

Miyuki blinked at Ringo, her usual sharp retort caught somewhere in her throat. Ringo’s calm persistence and warm presence had a subtle, grounding effect that even Miyuki found difficult to argue with.

Shisui, noticing her hesitation, tilted his head. “Why don’t we do this together, step by step? You direct, we assist. That way it’s still your kitchen, your rules.”

Miyuki’s lips pressed into a thin line, reluctant, but after a moment she nodded. Efficiency won out over stubborn pride — at least for now. They moved around her in quiet synchrony, chopping, stirring, and setting the table with an almost imperceptible care, letting her retain the sense of control she so valued.

“I suppose… that’s tolerable,” Miyuki muttered, not meeting their eyes.

Kagami and Shisui exchanged a small glance. “Tolerable is high praise from you,” Shisui said softly, a shadow of a smile on his lips.

Throughout it all, they avoided any mention of what had been said during her episode the day before — the words she had meant to keep in her mind alone. Their focus was on the present: ensuring she could rest, continue her passions, and still feel capable.

By mid-afternoon, Miyuki was settled at the small table near the window, a notebook open before her, puzzles spread out in neat piles, and a guitar resting against the chair. The soft light of the late afternoon caught her white hair just so, giving her an almost ethereal glow as she scribbled a few final lines into the notebook.

Shisui, lingering nearby, tilted his head curiously. “What are you writing, Miyuki? If it’s not a secret, I mean.”

Kagami leaned over from the other side of the table. “Yeah, come on. You always look so serious when you write. We’re curious.”

Ringo’s quiet voice joined them, gentle but persistent. “I would love to see, if you’re willing to share.”

Miyuki’s green eyes flicked between the three of them, weighing her options. She hesitated — after all, her stories were deeply personal, infused with the worlds of her previous life and her own imagination. But something about their gentle insistence made her consider it. Perhaps… just a little. They won’t understand everything anyway.

“All right,” she said finally, her voice precise and measured. “I’ll read you one of my works.” She selected a small story, carefully bound in neat handwriting. “It’s… about sisters. If I live long enough, I might have a younger sibling someday. So I wrote a story that focuses on… friendship, family, and trust.”

Shisui’s dark eyes softened, intrigued. “Sounds interesting. I’d like to hear it.”

Miyuki cleared her throat, opening the notebook. “Once, in a land not so different from our own, there were two sisters: Sayuri and Yuki. Yuki had a powerful bloodline technique, destined to be head of her clan. Because of her abilities, she was kept apart from Sayuri — for her own protection.”

She paused briefly, scanning the eager faces of her small audience. “Sayuri, curious and devoted to her sister, became enthralled by a political official named Denji. But Denji was deceitful, and he tricked Sayuri into doing harm to Yuki. Yuki’s powers spiraled out of control in response, not understanding why her sister would act against her.”

Kagami frowned slightly. “Sounds intense.”

Miyuki nodded, continuing. “Sayuri, realizing her mistake, sets out to find Yuki, and along the way encounters a handsome bandit named Heero. Heero is brave and strong, and you might expect him to save the day — but in the end, it isn’t Heero’s strength that protects them. It’s the love between the sisters, the trust and loyalty they share, that ultimately saves their clan from the threat of foreign enemies.”

Shisui’s lips curved into a small smile. “The sisters’ bond… that’s the true power.”

Miyuki allowed herself a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “Exactly. It’s not about force or technique alone. It’s about understanding each other, supporting each other… and valuing those connections more than anything else.”

Ringo’s quiet voice broke the brief silence. “It sounds like it will be a good story, Miyuki. Thank you for sharing it.”

Kagami, who rarely softened, nodded slowly. “Yeah. I didn’t expect… that. It sounds good.”

Miyuki returned her attention to her notebook, letting herself relax in their presence. Though her walls remained mostly intact — especially around Shisui, with his calm and distant energy — a small part of her felt warmth at having shared her imagination, her values, and a tiny fragment of her inner world.

Maybe… even if I can’t change what’s to come, I can still hold onto moments like this, she thought quietly, glancing at Shisui, Kagami, and Ringo. And perhaps, if nothing else, I can teach them — or someone like them — the power of love, loyalty, and trust.

Her pen moved once more across the page, capturing the final lines of her tale, while outside, the afternoon sun dipped lower, casting long, golden streaks across the room.

———

Miyuki rinsed the last of the dishes, her small hands moving with practiced precision. The warm water ran over her fingers, and the soap’s faint herbal scent reminded her of simpler days — of puzzles spread across the table, melodies from her guitar, and stories she could lose herself in. Yet her thoughts wandered, as they often did these days.

Sayuri and Yuki… sisters, separated yet bound by love. Could anyone, even someone like me, change the outcome of what is to come? she wondered, her green eyes narrowing as she recalled the events that loomed ahead. The massacre of the Uchiha. Shisui. Perhaps all three of them. Wars. Deaths. And Sakura... Did her very presence here, her rebirth, disrupt the path of Sakura.

Her mind flicked to Shisui, and a quiet, nagging thought pressed against her chest: Should I warn him? Could I even? Would it do any good if I tried?

A sudden wave of dizziness forced her to grip the counter tighter, her knees threatening to buckle. Before she could steady herself, a familiar hand was at her elbow.

“You alright, Miyuki?” Shisui’s dark eyes met hers, calm and focused.

“I thought I had this covered,” she muttered, annoyance sharpening her voice as she glanced at him. “Why are you always watching me?”

Shisui’s expression softened, but his tone was teasing. “Your parents didn’t mention that your episodes come up this often, did they?”

Miyuki bit her lip, scowling. “Maybe it’s the irritating presence of you and your team,” she shot back, a thin edge of defensiveness in her voice.

Shisui’s lips quirked into the faintest of smiles. “I sent Ringo a message to come back from the market,” he said quietly, his voice steady and reassuring. Before she could protest, he lifted her effortlessly into his arms, cradling her like a bride and carrying her toward the couch.

Miyuki’s green eyes went wide, a flare of indignation rising. This boy… thinks I’m some damsel in distress!

“If you think you’re being heroic right now,” she snapped, her tone cool but pointed, “you’re completely mistaken.”

Shisui tilted his head slightly, a teasing curve to his lips. “Am I?”

“Oh yes,” she said, lifting one hand to wag a finger at him. “Completely, utterly wrong. You can put me down and save your theatrics for someone else.”

“Or,” he countered, “maybe you enjoy the attention more than you’d like to admit.”

Miyuki’s lips pressed into a thin line, a flush of annoyance creeping across her pale cheeks. “I am not the type to… to swoon at anyone. Least of all some overachieving child ninja who thinks he can read my mind.”

Shisui’s eyes darkened with amusement. “You say things to provoke a reaction more than actually meaning them, don’t you?”

Her chest tightened. How does he—? She shot back, voice sharp and proud: “And you’re not exactly… subtle yourself. But don’t flatter yourself—I don’t actually care what you think.”

He let her words hang for a moment, unphased, and Miyuki felt that gnawing irritation deep in her chest. He’d seen through her, somehow — and the fact that he was younger than her mentally, yet aware of so much, grated at her pride like nothing else.

The door creaked open, and Ringo stepped inside, her arms full of groceries. Her gentle face tightened with concern as soon as she saw Miyuki on the couch. “Miyuki… are you alright?” she asked, setting the bags aside quickly. Her voice held the same softness as always, but there was an undercurrent of worry.

“She’s fine,” Shisui said, his tone calm but edged with something quieter. “Just another episode.”

Ringo’s gaze flicked between the two, her brows knitting together. “Your parents told us these weren’t so frequent. Not like this.”

Miyuki sat up straighter, folding her arms across her chest. “It’s not that serious,” she said firmly, annoyance sharpening her tone. “And don’t you dare tell them. They already worry too much.”

From the corner, Kagami appeared, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “That’s not your call to make. We’re supposed to inform our client of any changes. And in this case—your father is our client.”

Her green eyes snapped toward him, the sting of irritation flaring. “You’re ninja. Killers. Why should decorum matter to you?” Her words were sharper than intended, venom laced in frustration rather than conviction.

Kagami’s jaw tightened, but before he could fire back, Ringo’s calm voice cut through. “Miyuki,” she said gently, meeting her eyes without flinching. “What do you know about your condition?”

Miyuki blinked, thrown for a moment by Ringo’s composure. The girl wasn’t rising to her barbs. Instead, she was… steady, grounding. Miyuki let out a quiet, almost bitter laugh, her voice flat. “I have too much spiritual power. More than physical. It messes with my constitution… with me. That’s all there is to it.”

Kagami tilted his head, curiosity breaking through his usual guardedness. “How… how does that even happen?”

“Genes,” Miyuki answered with a dry chuckle, hollow at the edges. “Something went wrong somewhere, and I was born unlucky.”

The room fell quiet. When she glanced at Shisui, his expression was softer than she expected—sad, even. He looked at her with something that unsettled her, as if he understood in a way others couldn’t.

She didn’t understand it, but the sight tugged at her thoughts—Uchiha, Naruto, tragedies still to come. A sigh slipped past her lips. “Look,” she said finally, her voice dropping. “It’s shitty. I won’t lie. But it could be worse. I’ve got good parents. I’ve got healthcare. I’m in Konoha, not some no-name village where shinobi tear everything apart, or bandits raid homes every night. I’ve got it better than most people.”

Her fists tightened against her knees. “But it’s still shitty. I feel trapped. And sometimes I just… want a little control. A little autonomy.”

Her gaze swept across them all, firm but tired. “So, please—don’t run to my parents every time I wobble. Unless it’s hospitalisation-scary, leave them out of it. That’s all I’m asking.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was weighted, thoughtful. For once, none of them had a quick retort.

Chapter Text

The morning air was cool, sunlight filtering through the leaves as Miyuki walked between Ringo and Shisui, her small steps quick to keep up with theirs. The hospital loomed ahead, familiar in that way she despised.

She glanced to her left, then her right, and finally muttered, “Where’s Kagami?”

Shisui didn’t miss a beat. “Called to the field. He left at dawn.”

Miyuki’s lips pressed into a thin line. She stared ahead, green eyes narrowed. “…He could have said goodbye.” The words came out sharper than she intended, but she refused to take them back.

Shisui chuckled softly, tilting his head so he could catch her expression. “Oh? Sounds like someone’s upset their favorite ninja ran off without a farewell.”

Miyuki’s cheeks heated, and she crossed her arms. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s not my favorite anything. I just—” she huffed, looking away, “—find it rude.”

Ringo leaned closer, her voice warm and quiet. “He’ll come back. Missions pull people suddenly sometimes, but he wouldn’t just vanish forever, Miyuki.”

Miyuki blinked up at her, then exhaled slowly. Ringo’s presence had a way of softening the edge of her temper. “…You’re far too optimistic,” she muttered, but her tone lacked venom.

As they reached the hospital entrance, Shisui pushed the door open, his lips still quirked in that faint, knowing smile. “Optimism balances out your cynicism. Maybe that’s why you two get along so well.”

Miyuki scowled, though her hand brushed Ringo’s sleeve lightly — a small, unconscious gesture of comfort she would never acknowledge aloud.

Inside, the sterile air of the hospital greeted them. Miyuki wrinkled her nose, but when Ringo’s hand briefly steadied her elbow as they walked to the check-in, she didn’t pull away.
———-

The waiting room smelled sharply of antiseptic, mingled with the faint, sweet tang of the floral air freshener someone had placed near the window. Miyuki perched on the edge of the hard plastic chair, fingers twisting the hem of her sleeve, one heel tapping the floor in a quiet rhythm. She kept her gaze fixed on the door leading deeper into the clinic, though her green eyes flicked occasionally to Shisui and Ringo seated nearby.

When her name was called, she straightened abruptly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Ringo’s hand brushed lightly against her elbow in encouragement, a small warmth that Miyuki accepted silently. Shisui trailed behind, hands in his pockets, his faint grin sharp but watchful.

“Good to see you again, Miyuki. How have you been feeling since your last check-in?” The doctor’s voice was calm, neutral, professional.

“Fine,” Miyuki said, voice clipped, though her knuckles whitened against her sleeve. Too quick, too tight. She looked away when her chest tightened, willing herself to breathe normally.

Ringo gave her a sideways glance, noting the tension but saying nothing. Shisui leaned against the wall, arms crossed loosely, waiting.

“Your parents noted fewer severe episodes, but fatigue persists, yes?” the doctor continued. Miyuki’s shoulders stiffened, and she pressed her lips together, staring at the floor tiles as if they held the answer.

“…Maybe,” she muttered, and it came out softer than she intended.

Ringo leaned forward gently. “She tires quickly when walking long distances or focusing too hard. Dizzy spells, too.”

The doctor nodded. “Yes. It aligns with her condition. Miyuki, this isn’t something that can be ‘cured.’ You’ll need to pace yourself. But with careful monitoring, you can live a meaningful life.” His eyes softened. “Many patients adapt beautifully.”

Miyuki’s lips twisted in a faint, ironic smile. Meaningful… right. She let her gaze drift to Shisui, then back to the floor. Adapting… but not changing what I want.

“Fainting?” Ringo asked.

“Overexertion,” the doctor explained. “We’ll adjust your regimen, but the key is caution. Don’t push too hard.”

Miyuki’s fingers drummed against her knee. “So basically, I’m weak forever.”

Shisui’s voice cut lightly through the air. “Not weak. Just… limited. You can still boss people around in the kitchen. And solve puzzles. Masterful at both.”

A flicker of warmth edged her chest, fleeting, unacknowledged. She caught Ringo’s gentle smile and felt the faint echo of envy, yes—but also gratitude.

“You need to keep enjoying your strengths,” the doctor said. “Your mind is sharp. That’s a power in itself.”

Miyuki exhaled softly, letting her shoulders drop an inch. She glanced at Ringo, who gave a small nod that said more than words could. In that quiet affirmation, Miyuki felt a tether—fragile, but real.

⸻

———

The Haruno home smelled of roasted vegetables and miso broth, the table set neatly by Mebuki’s careful hands. She glanced toward the two ninja standing politely by the door. “You’ve all been such a help with Miyuki—stay for supper tonight.”

Shisui looked uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, Haruno-san,” Shisui said politely, his smile genuine but a little weary. “I’ve got a clan meeting tonight.”

Ringo lingered. “I… can stay a little while,” she offered, her soft smile hesitant but sincere.

“Perfect,” Kizashi boomed from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed like a proud host. “One guest is all we need to make this a feast.” His voice carried the sort of easy cheer that made even Ringo relax.

Dinner was lively—Kizashi tossing out jokes and little teases, Miyuki rolling her eyes at half of them, Mebuki sighing at her husband’s antics. “Our Miyuki takes after her mother, you know,” Kizashi announced grandly, pointing his chopsticks toward his daughter. “So serious, so proper… a little tsundere at times.”

Miyuki nearly choked on her rice. “Excuse me?”

Ringo giggled into her sleeve, and Mebuki only rolled her eyes. “Don’t encourage him, Ringo. He’ll never stop.”

The laughter that followed was warm, a cocoon around the table that even Miyuki, with all her guarded edges, allowed herself to enjoy.

Later, as the dishes were being cleared, Ringo insisted on helping. She and Miyuki worked side by side at the sink, the clink of porcelain filling the small silence.

After a moment, Ringo’s voice softened. “It’s funny how life works. When I first saw you—when I saw your episodes, how desperate you looked—I felt so bad for you.” She paused, her hands lingering in the soapy water. “And then I sat here, with your parents, with this warmth… and I felt awful. Because I was jealous. I don’t have this.”

Miyuki was quiet, her green eyes lowering as she wiped down a plate. “I get it,” she said finally, her voice steady but thoughtful. “Sometimes I feel jealous too, watching you. You’re a shinobi. You can go places, do amazing things. I… can’t.”

The silence stretched, thoughtful, before Miyuki added, more firmly, “But I wouldn’t trade them. Not for good health, not for freedom. No matter how annoying it is, I’d never give up my parents.”

Ringo smiled, though the curve of her lips was touched with sadness. “You’re lucky. Truly.” She dried her hands on a cloth, then turned toward the door. “I’ll have to go back out on the field soon. I wanted to say goodbye properly.”

Miyuki blinked, frowning faintly. Something tight curled in her chest, but she only gave a small nod. “Then… don’t do anything stupid.”

Ringo’s laugh was soft, almost wistful. “I’ll try.”

————

⸻

The late afternoon sunlight spilled across the floorboards, soft and warm, but not enough to chase the weight from Miyuki’s chest. She sat cross-legged before her easel, brush poised over the canvas, though her hand trembled slightly as if resisting the image forming in her mind. The meadow was almost finished: tall grasses swaying under a heavy sky, a solitary figure standing quietly in the distance.

Shisui lounged against the wall, casual but alert, his gaze never leaving her. Kagami sat straighter, fists resting lightly on his knees, both of them aware that her silence was not emptiness but a careful, deliberate presence.

“Have you heard anything about Ringo?” Miyuki’s voice was soft, almost swallowed by the sunlight, yet it carried a weight she couldn’t deny.

Shisui’s eyes flicked toward hers. “We can’t give details.” His voice was careful, protective. “I’m sorry.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, fingers brushing over the edge of the canvas. “…So you can’t even tell me if she’s alive.”

Kagami’s voice was flat, almost cold. “We wouldn’t tell you if she were dead either. Not until her team returned. So stop fishing, Miyuki.”

Her shoulders sagged slightly, and she dipped the brush in pale green again, as if the motion itself could anchor her. The girl in the meadow seemed to lean forward under the weight of her gaze—waiting, unsure, lonely. Waiting for something that might never come.

“Will you be leaving soon too?” The question slipped out before she could stop it, and even she noticed the fragile hope it carried.

Shisui leaned back on his hands, eyes narrowing at the canvas. “We’ll find replacements before that happens.”

Her throat tightened. “So that means… I won’t see you again.”

The silence stretched, heavy and unyielding. Even the brush hovered above the canvas, suspended mid-stroke.

Shisui finally cleared his throat. “It’s beautiful.”

Miyuki blinked at him, then at the meadow girl on the canvas. Her chest ached with an unnameable longing, a careful, measured grief she could neither share nor admit. The figure on the canvas mirrored her own heart: watching, waiting, alone—but still moving forward.

She lowered her brush and let her hands rest against her knees, closing her eyes for a moment. The colors of the meadow were muted, heavy with shadow, yet they carried life. And in that quiet, Miyuki let herself imagine Ringo’s smile, a light she couldn’t reach yet, and felt a small flicker of warmth thread through the ache in her chest

———-

Miyuki sat before her easel, the half-finished painting of a lonely meadow girl staring back at her with more weight than she cared to admit. The colors had dried into something heavy, muted—like the air in her chest.

Her father’s voice broke through her thoughts. “There’ll be a retired chūnin watching over you today,” Kizashi said lightly, like he was mentioning the weather.

Miyuki didn’t look at him, only at the painting. “Figures. The boys vanish without a word. At least Ringo said goodbye properly.”

Kizashi chuckled, scratching the back of his head. “Might’ve been urgent. Sometimes shinobi don’t have the time for goodbyes.”

Her jaw tightened. The brush in her hand pressed hard into the palette. “They’re the same age as me,” she muttered, anger bleeding through. “But they’re shinobi. They kill, they get killed. Isn’t that wrong?”

The humor faded from her father’s face. He watched her quietly, then said, “You wanted to be a shinobi once too. Don’t pretend you didn’t.” His tone was gentle, but it landed like a challenge.

Miyuki’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “I never told you that. Or Mama.”

Kizashi’s smile was sad, knowing. “Parents don’t need to be told. It’s all in your eyes.”

Her breath caught, shame flickering across her face. She turned away, staring at the meadow girl again. The figure’s loneliness mirrored her guilt.

After a long silence, Kizashi tilted his head. “So then—what kind of shinobi would you have been?”

In her mind, Miyuki thought of Zoro’s three swords and Harley Quinn’s oversized hammer—characters who lived in a world her father could never understand. Out loud, she said instead, “Maybe I’d carry three swords. Or a giant hammer. Something ridiculous but memorable.”

Kizashi blinked, then barked out a laugh. “Three swords? You’ve only got two hands!”

“I’d use my mouth for the third one,” Miyuki said flatly, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

Kizashi slapped his knee, laughing so hard his shoulders shook. “Miyuki, you’ve got an imagination! You’d scare the life out of your enemies just by showing up!”

For the first time that day, Miyuki let herself smirk. “Maybe when Ringo comes back, I’ll ask her to teach me.”

“Oh, I’d pay to see her face,” Kizashi wheezed. “Let me be around when you do. Please. It’ll be worth it.”

The painting was still there, still heavy, but Miyuki’s chest felt a little lighter.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Miyuki sized up the woman who had come to take Ringo’s place. Ayako stood in the doorway with a small smile and a cane, her posture dignified despite the faint limp in her left leg. She looked weathered in a way Miyuki hadn’t seen in Shisui, Kagami, or even Ringo — tired, as though the world had pressed down on her too long, but still standing.

Miyuki’s eyes immediately went to the cane. “What happened to your leg?” she asked bluntly, chin tilted upward. “And if you can’t run, are you even going to keep up with me?”

“Miyuki!” Mebuki hissed, mortified, her hands planting on her hips.

But Ayako didn’t bristle. Instead, she laughed — a deep, genuine laugh that startled even Miyuki. “Direct, aren’t you? Don’t worry, little one. My legs may not be what they used to, but I still have chakra. I can move better than I look.”

Miyuki studied her face, deliberately unbothered by her mother’s glare. “So the injury. Was it from the war?”

“Miyuki,” Mebuki snapped again, her voice rising with exasperation. “You can’t just ask people things like that!”

“That’s… confidential,” Ayako said, her smile dipping just for a heartbeat. “But no. It was before the war.”

Miyuki frowned, clearly disappointed. “That sucks. You’ve got scars, but you can’t brag about them. What’s the point, then?”

Mebuki groaned, dragging a hand over her face. “I’m so sorry. She has no sense of—”

Ayako held up a hand, cutting her off gently. “Don’t apologize.” Her voice softened, touched with something like relief. “Most people tiptoe around me, afraid I’ll break if they so much as mention my leg. But this one—” she gestured at Miyuki, her tired smile returning, “—she says exactly what’s on her mind. It’s… refreshing.”

Miyuki arched a brow, smirking faintly as though testing how far she could push. “Refreshing, huh? So you don’t mind if I keep asking rude questions just to see what you’ll do?”

Ayako chuckled again, shaking her head. “You remind me of someone I used to know. A woman my age, sharp-tongued, always cutting straight to the heart of things. But you’re what—nine? Ten? You sound like her in a child’s body.”

“Or maybe I’m just better at noticing things than everyone else,” Miyuki countered with an air of pride.

“Or maybe you just don’t care what anyone thinks,” Ayako replied, her voice amused but laced with quiet respect.

Mebuki pinched the bridge of her nose. “She’s spoiled, that’s all.”

But Ayako only shook her head. “She’s honest. I think… she and I are going to get along just fine.”

Miyuki leaned back, satisfied with the reaction she’d managed to draw out. For once, she didn’t feel like she had to prove anything. Ayako saw her, sharp edges and all — and didn’t flinch.

⸻

Miyuki had been circling Ayako cautiously at first, as if the woman were another puzzle to be solved. The younger girl had met plenty of adults in her life—parents, teachers, shinobi—but Ayako was different. She carried herself with the sort of world-weary dignity.

At first, Miyuki compared her to the people she missed most: Ringo, with her soft patience and kindness; Kagami, with his sharp wit and competitive streak; Shisui, whose laughter had always made her feel like she could keep up no matter how much weaker she really was. But Ayako was none of them. Older, for one, and somehow steadier—like she had already fought her battles and no longer needed to prove anything.

Talking to her didn’t feel like trying to measure up, or trying not to be left behind. It wasn’t a contest. With Ayako, she could sit and speak freely without worrying about being too sharp, too much, too childish.

Her father noticed quickly. One evening, after catching them in the corner with teacups and low voices, he chuckled.
“You two are like a pair of old grannies gossiping about the neighbors,” he said.

Miyuki gasped, clutching her cup to her chest in mock offense. “We do not gossip.”

Ayako only smirked, lips twitching. “We simply observe patterns of behavior.”

“Exactly!” Miyuki said, grateful for the assist. But her cheeks betrayed her, heating as her father laughed his deep, knowing laugh.

The truth was, she enjoyed these stolen conversations far more than she admitted. Ayako could be biting in her comments, clever and unflinching. If Miyuki aimed a verbal jab, Ayako always parried neatly, never pulling punches but never cruel either. It was refreshing. Ringo had always been too nice, too gentle, the kind of person who would smooth her rough edges instead of meeting them head-on. With the boys, she often felt like they were judging her, even if they meant well. But Ayako—Ayako kept up. She met Miyuki’s barbs with barbs of her own, and the result was not a contest but a dance.

It was in the midst of this growing bond that Miyuki began to imagine something new. A character who resembled Ayako—strong, sharp, but carrying a weight she couldn’t always name. Someone who, like Miyuki herself, was learning how to live with pain that lingered after even after her rebirth.

And so the first spark of Aya was born, almost without Miyuki realizing it.

———-

Miyuki sat cross-legged on her bed that night, notebook spread across her lap, candlelight flickering faintly against the paper. Ayako’s cane still echoed in her mind — the steady tap against the floorboards, the way she smiled without flinching at Miyuki’s sharp questions. Something about her had lodged itself deep inside Miyuki’s thoughts.

In her other life, she had loved a show — Violet Evergarden. She remembered the beauty of it, the sorrow, the slow healing stitched into every word of a letter. And now… she could almost see it again, re-woven into this world.

Her pen moved, and a new story took shape.

Aya. That would be her name — sharp and simple, like Ayako’s. Aya was a shinobi from a clan bred to be merciless, raised to be nothing more than a weapon. Her superior was Shiki, a jōnin instructor from a respected civilian family. He was hardworking, kind, and — unlike anyone else — treated Aya as human, not a tool.

But the story began after the war. Aya opened her eyes in a hospital, bandaged, broken. Her leg was gone. The last thing she remembered was Shiki pushing her aside during an explosion, shielding her with his own body. When she asked the nurses where he was, they wouldn’t answer. Their silence was worse than words.

Aya told herself she was being discarded — a broken weapon, useless now that the war was over. But she couldn’t shake the memory of Shiki’s voice, soft, steady, echoing something she didn’t understand. Words blurred in her mind.

Takuma entered the story — Shiki’s childhood friend, the one who took Aya in. He was warm in his own way, but practical, reminding her again and again that Shiki was gone. Still, he asked her to help people. Just small things at first.

Aya resisted — she didn’t know how to be anything other than a weapon. But slowly, inevitably, she gave in. She helped a sick woman draft letters for a daughter who would one day read them long after her mother’s passing. She cleaned the home of a widower drowning in grief for his wife and child.

And as Aya carried out these small favors, she began to understand emotions she had never been allowed to feel. Pain. Longing. Joy. Love.

The story reached its quiet, devastating climax with a dying soldier. Aya knelt by his side, her ink-stained fingers trembling as she wrote a letter to his family, to the fiancée he would never see again. His yearning for them echoed her own unspoken ache for Shiki.

And in that moment — just as she sealed the letter — she heard it. Shiki’s voice, clear, unwavering. I love you.

Her chest tightened, her hand pausing mid-stroke.

Aya delivered the letter, bowed her head as the family wept, and walked away. When she returned home to Takuma, he looked at her strangely.

“You look different,” he said softly. “Like you’re burning.”

Aya’s resolve broke. She collapsed into tears, words tumbling free at last: that she had loved Shiki too, that it hurt unbearably, that she couldn’t understand why he had to leave her behind.

The story closed not with her healed, but with her moving forward. Takuma offered her a place in a small company that helped people write, rebuild, remember — a new kind of work born from the ashes of war. And Aya, though scarred, though grieving, took the first step toward living not as a weapon, but as a person.

Miyuki set down her pen, staring at the page, her chest aching. She thought of Ayako’s tired smile, of the way she carried her scars without apology. She thought of the future she knew, of the war and the names she already carried like ghosts.

Before Ayako left that evening, Miyuki slipped a neat stack of papers into her hands.

“Here. Read it before you sleep. And tomorrow—tell me what you think.”

Ayako raised an eyebrow, weighing the pages as if they might combust. “You realize my review will be brutal, right? I don’t sugarcoat.”

Miyuki crossed her arms. “I’m not too worried. I saw you reading Icha icha tactics the other day.”

Ayako blinked, then gave her a look. “It was in your bookcase.”

Miyuki smirked, leaning closer. “I only wanted to see what the hype was about. The sex scenes were so boring. Honestly, I could do better.”

Ayako’s lips twitched before she snorted outright. “Now that I’d have to read.” Use to Miyuki’s quirks.

Suddenly, Miyuki’s bravado faltered, a faint flush creeping up her cheeks. “The story I gave you doesn’t have… any of that. It’s not—like that.”

Ayako chuckled, the sound low and amused. “Relax. I’ll be honest either way.” She tucked the stack under her arm like it belonged there, then turned to go.

Miyuki watched her leave, biting back a grin. Something about being taken seriously—truly seriously—by Ayako made her chest feel lighter.

Back inside, the warmth of the kitchen wrapped around her. Mebuki was bent over the counter, chopping vegetables with a rhythm that usually meant she was humming to herself. But tonight, there was no hum.

“Need help?” Miyuki asked, already reaching for the cutting board.

Her mother gave her a tired smile. “That would be nice.”

As Miyuki joined her, she noticed the faint crease in Mebuki’s brow, the way her movements were just a fraction slower, more deliberate. Her mother seemed distracted, a little pale, and once or twice Miyuki caught her pressing a hand lightly to her stomach, as though to steady herself.

Miyuki said nothing, but the detail stayed with her, tucked away in that sharp mind that was always observing. Something was different. Something was shifting.

⸻

The following afternoon, Ayako came by with Miyuki’s pages tucked neatly under her arm. She lowered herself into a chair with her usual no-nonsense air while Miyuki sat across from her, hands folded primly in her lap.

“Well,” Ayako began, flipping through the stack as though reviewing it one last time, “it’s unpolished. You linger too much in some descriptions, and your pacing drags here and there. But…” she tapped the edge of the pages, “it’s good. Too good to keep in a drawer. If you keep writing like this, you ought to think about publishing.”

A shy smile crept across Miyuki’s lips, restrained but unmistakably pleased. “You really think so?”

Ayako gave her a look. “Do I seem like the type to flatter?”

That earned a small, polite laugh, but Miyuki’s gaze wandered, her smile fading.

“What’s on your mind?” Ayako pressed.

Miyuki hesitated before answering softly, “I think… my mother is expecting.”

Ayako’s brows rose. “A baby?”

Miyuki nodded once, prim and certain. “A tiny little being, I might have to share my space now.”

Ayako studied her for a long moment, mistaking her distraction for unease. “Ah. You’re worried they won’t have room for you anymore.”

Miyuki’s spine straightened, her voice crisp, almost scolding. “How could they not? I am very lovable.”

That answer was so earnest, so matter-of-fact, that Ayako barked a laugh. “Fair enough.”

Miyuki smoothed her skirt with small, careful motions, hiding the more complicated thoughts she would never share—that she already knew who her sister would become, and how heavy her future might be.

Chapter Text

Mebuki’s hands rested on the counter as she studied her daughter, tilting her head slightly. “So… how do you feel about the baby?” Her tone was gentle, probing—not expecting a dramatic answer, but wanting to feel out Miyuki’s true thoughts.

Miyuki sat upright on her chair, her posture perfect, hands folded neatly in her lap. “I’m looking forward to being an older sister,” she said carefully, her voice even, precise. There was no excitement in her tone, only the quiet certainty of someone who had always known her place, yet a faint spark of anticipation hid just beneath the surface.

Kizashi leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms lazily behind his head. “And do you think it’ll be a boy or a girl?” His eyes glimmered with amusement.

Miyuki’s green eyes narrowed slightly, deliberate and precise. “A girl, obviously.”

Kizashi laughed, a warm, booming sound that filled the kitchen. “A girl, huh? I was hoping for a boy, to even the playing field. Otherwise, I’m going to be completely overrun.”

Miyuki rolled her eyes, the motion small but expressive. “Even with another boy, Mama and I would still rule the house.” There was a sharpness to her words, but it was more teasing than harsh—a subtle reminder of her confidence, and perhaps a quietly cynical commentary on the futility of balance in her home.

Mebuki’s brow furrowed slightly, her voice softening. “Miyuki… are you really okay with all this?” There was genuine concern in her tone, as if she could sense something more behind her daughter’s words.

Miyuki paused, lips pressed into a thin line, considering her reply. She could have admitted the faint worry that threaded through her chest, the shadow of doubt that lingered whenever she thought of her own frailty, or of the life Sakura would one day lead. But she didn’t. Instead, she answered firmly, prim and proper as ever: “No matter what, I am still Miyuki Haruno, and I am still your daughter.” The words were precise, almost ceremonial, but carried beneath them a subtle cynicism—an acknowledgment that the world was unpredictable, and she would need to navigate it carefully, yet she still claimed her unshakable place in it.

Kizashi and Mebuki shared a glance, and then both moved to embrace her. Miyuki allowed herself to be enveloped in their arms, the warmth of their hold comforting, almost indulgent. She felt the pulse of their hearts beneath her cheek, and for a moment, she let herself imagine what it might be like if she could protect this small, perfect world from all the inevitable chaos outside.

But even in that comfort, her mind wandered, inevitably. She thought of her illness—the weakness, the dizzy spells, the fragility that made her so dependent at times—and a thread of unease tugged at her chest. She wondered quietly whether she would be strong enough to be there for Sakura when she needed her, whether she could shield her little sister from pain in a world that had already taken so much from so many. A thought she carefully locked away, keeping it beneath the prim exterior she presented to the world. Cynically, she reminded herself that no one could guarantee a happy ending, and perhaps her own place in Sakura’s life was never assured.

————-

The sun hung low over Konoha, casting a warm golden glow across the streets. Miyuki walked beside her mother, Mebuki, careful to keep her pace measured, small hands folded neatly in front of her. Her gaze drifted over the familiar rooftops and gardens, but her mind wandered elsewhere.

Shisui, Kagami, Ringo… the war had ended, and she hadn’t seen them since. Not in passing, not at festivals, not mentioned in passing by her parents as if they had ever existed in her life. It was as though the three of them had been wiped from her world entirely. She knew Shisui was still alive; a few more years before the tragic shadow that awaited him at Naka River. Yet that knowledge offered little comfort. A thin line of irritation creased her brow—why hadn’t they come? Why hadn’t anyone checked on her? Are they not friends? Was she too civilian for their lives? Just a side quest?

She sighed softly, blaming the aftermath of the war, the rebuilding, the Fourth Hokage now sworn in, the endless responsibilities that weighed on Konoha. In her heart, Miyuki knew she had no right to complain, yet the feeling of being left aside, a mere background character in a world spinning with history.

“You’ve been walking too fast,” Mebuki complained, her hands resting gently on her own round belly.

Miyuki straightened her posture, a faintly scolding tilt to her chin. “Walking is good for you, Mama—and the baby. Staying active will help with circulation, improve chakra flow. It’s better than sitting around whole day.”

“You’re reading too many pregnancy books,” Mebuki shot back with a teasing frown.

Miyuki’s lips quirked in a small smile, prim and proper, but with the faintest edge of amusement. “I happen to find the pregnancy texts quite… instructive. Especially the parts on chakra control and energy alignment. I think it could be useful.”

Her mother rolled her eyes, laughter escaping her lips. “Only you, Miyuki.”

Miyuki inclined her head solemnly. “It is my duty as your daughter to observe and apply knowledge where it might be useful.”

“You are the best daughter in the world,” Mebuki said warmly, her voice softening.

“I’m only doing my duty, Mama,” she said, primly. Then, with a faint smirk, “The praise, though—well-deserved.”

A giggle interrupted them. Both women turned, and Miyuki’s sharp green eyes took in the new arrival. There, standing a short distance away, was Mikoto Uchiha, her own belly round with child, and beside her a young Itachi Uchiha, gazing curiously at the mother-daughter pair.

Miyuki straightened instantly, small hands clasped, her usual composure returning. Her mind raced in silent calculation—what had brought them here? How should she behave? And beneath it all, a subtle, unexpected excitement.

“Good afternoon,” Miyuki said carefully, her voice polite and precise, yet carrying the faintest hint of curiosity.

Mebuki stepped forward with a gentle smile, resting a hand lightly on her belly. “Uchiha-sama, it’s wonderful to see you. And Itachi… you’ve grown quite handsome,” she said warmly.

Mikoto inclined her head gracefully, her eyes soft but observant. “Mebuki, and this must be little Miyuki… it’s good to meet you both.” She glanced briefly at Miyuki, taking in her poise and sharp gaze.

When Miyuki’s eyes met Itachi’s, something ancient twisted in her chest. The look in his eyes—the calm before the storm—was too familiar. It was the look of someone already carrying the weight of the world.

As Mebuki commented on his handsomeness, Miyuki seized the moment. Tilting her head, she offered a faintly smug smile. “Well… I suppose I’m quite cute myself.”

Mebuki’s cheeks colored immediately, her flustered exclamation barely escaping: “Miyuki!”

Mikoto’s lips curved in a small, amused smile, while Itachi blinked, expression calm but puzzled, clearly unaccustomed to someone of Miyuki’s blunt self-assurance. Miyuki suppressed a tiny inward giggle—her little test had worked.

“She’s a little spoiled at home,” Mebuki added, trying to smooth over her daughter’s theatrics.

Miyuki straightened, her hands folded delicately. “I am not spoiled. I am simply… very loved.”

Mikoto’s smile deepened. “I’ve always wanted a daughter. You must make life lively at home.”

Miyuki’s grin turned sly. “We do. Mother and I often gang up on Father—it’s quite fun.”

Itachi tilted his head, clearly confused. “You… bully him?”

Mikoto chuckled softly, a knowing glint in her eyes, while Mebuki’s face tinted pink with embarrassment.

Miyuki shrugged elegantly. “With love, of course. So it’s perfectly alright.”

Itachi’s small frown deepened, confusion plain on his youthful face. Miyuki inwardly smirked—she had successfully confused the Uchiha prodigy.

Her gaze returned to him, sharper now. “Do you know Shisui?” she asked, the hint of exasperation clear in her tone.

Itachi’s eyes narrowed slightly, attentive, and Mikoto answered calmly, “He’s my nephew.”

Miyuki’s expression turned miffed. “Then perhaps you could tell him that his previous mission assignment is owed a report—and a hello. Maybe some peace offering for leaving without a word would be sufficient. It’s… rather rude of him, Kagami, and Ringo not to have seen me since the war has ended.”

Mebuki exhaled quietly, a hand to her forehead. “Miyuki, Mikoto is the matriarch of the Uchiha clan. She is not going to play messenger for a nine year old.”

Miyuki’s gaze locked on Mikoto, serious and deliberate. “Then I will let you read my manuscript in return for a favour. Consider it a privilege. I shall be a famous writer one day, and you may say you read my work before I was known.”

Mebuki rolled her eyes, a faint smile tugging at her lips at her daughter’s charm.

Mikoto laughed lightly, the sound warm and genuine. “I will gladly accept, Miyuki. I’m very curious now.”

Itachi, still observing, merely blinked, tilting his head as though weighing her words, his expression unreadable yet attentive—a quiet witness to Miyuki’s calculated charm.

Miyuki allowed a small, satisfied smile, inwardly pleased.

⸻

Miyuki knelt in the garden, carefully pulling weeds from between the rows of neat green shoots. The afternoon sun painted her hair a softer pink, and though her hands were dirtied, her posture remained refined, as if even in gardening she was determined to remain dignified.

“Still playing the princess, even with your hands in the soil?”

Miyuki stiffened at the familiar voice, glancing up sharply. Shisui stood a few steps away, relaxed as ever, his smile mischievous, dark eyes glinting with amusement.

“You,” Miyuki muttered, surprise flickering before it sharpened into annoyance. She brushed off her hands primly on a cloth, then fixed him with a steady gaze. “Where are Ringo and Kagami?”

Shisui’s grin widened. “And here I thought you’d be happy to see me. Guess not.”

Miyuki rolled her eyes dramatically, resuming her work with brisk precision. “Don’t flatter yourself. Kagami and you are tied for second place on the people I wanted to see today.”

Shisui leaned against the fence post, watching her with open amusement. “So what you’re really saying is… you just wanted to see Ringo. That’s a little mean, you know. Especially to someone who just survived a war.”

Miyuki didn’t look up, her fingers deftly tucking soil around a stem. “The war ended a while ago, Shisui. You’re late to be using it as an excuse. If you’ve come only to announce you’re alive—good. Wonderful. But if that’s all, you may leave.” Her tone was clipped, but her movements betrayed the faintest tremor of irritation.

Shisui sighed, scratching the back of his head. “Always so dramatic. Fine, what if I brought a peace offering?”

That made her pause. Slowly, Miyuki looked up, her expression curious despite herself.

Shisui’s sly smile returned as he produced a small lacquered box, holding it out with a flourish. “For the girl who managed to win over my aunt Mikoto. Quite the feat.”

Miyuki blinked, her composure slipping for the briefest moment. She reached for it cautiously, as if uncertain. “You know I wasn’t serious about a peace offering.”

“I know.” Shisui’s voice was softer now. “But I also know we should’ve come to see you sooner. Ringo, Kagami, me—we all should have.”

Miyuki looked at the box in her lap, her lips pressing into a thin line. She opened it slowly, and her breath caught. Inside was a pen—sleek, elegant, the kind of thing a serious writer might treasure.

Her eyes softened, and for a moment, her carefully built façade wavered. Then, just as quickly, she lifted her chin, trying to mask the warmth in her chest. “Hmph. At least you know my worth.”

Shisui laughed, the sound bright and genuine.

Miyuki turned the pen over in her hands once more before setting it carefully aside, as though it were a treasure she didn’t want to smudge with soil. She dusted her palms on her skirt, looked at Shisui coolly, then said, “You might as well come inside. Mama will scold me if she finds out I let you leave without offering tea.”

Shisui raised a brow, smirking. “Oh? So you don’t actually want me here, but you’re worried about appearances.”

Miyuki sniffed primly. “Naturally. I have standards.”

“Right.” Shisui’s grin widened as he followed her toward the veranda. “And here I thought you were just being nice.”

Once they were seated with steaming cups, Miyuki sipped with perfect posture before asking, as casually as she could, “So… when will Ringo come by?”

Shisui nearly choked on his tea, his grin turning into a laugh. “Unbelievable. So you really did just use me to get to Ringo.” He leaned in, eyes sparkling. “And poor Kagami? You don’t even spare him a thought?”

Miyuki rolled her eyes, setting her cup down with delicate precision. “Kagami’s alive. That’s enough. I don’t need to make a parade of it.”

“Cruel,” Shisui said, though his voice carried more fondness than reproach. Then, more seriously, “Ringo might be away for longer. They’ve been calling in every medic-nin they can. The aftermath of war hasn’t been kind. But I’ll pass along your message.”

For once, Miyuki didn’t bristle. She nodded, her voice softer. “Medic-nin are… quite amazing. Hands that heal—it’s rather noble.”

Shisui tilted his head, watching her. “If you’d followed the shinobi path, would you have become a medic-nin?”

The look she gave him was pure disdain, though her lips twitched as if hiding amusement. “Hardly. I’d be a shinobi with a name that carried weight. Like the Fourth—Yellow Flash—or the White Fang. My enemies would hear my name and pack up before I even arrived. I’d have a flashy moniker, be strong, legendary…” she lifted her chin, a little dramatic sparkle in her eyes, “…and carry three swords.”

Shisui blinked, then barked out a laugh. “Three? You’ve only got two hands, Miyuki.”

Unfazed, she leaned forward, tapping her lips. “I’d hold the third in my mouth.”

For a moment, Shisui just stared at her—then shook his head, grinning helplessly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m visionary,” she corrected smoothly, a prim little smile tugging at her mouth.

But Shisui didn’t look away. His laughter lingered in his eyes. He had known her long enough to see the act she wore: the spoiled, smug princess mask she put on to keep people at bay. And he could see, too, how it slipped in moments like this, when her pride sparkled not with cruelty but with life.

Miyuki, for her part, felt the weight of his gaze but didn’t flinch. He kept up with her barbs easily, yet read between them without being told. It was… disarming.

She took another delicate sip of her tea, then set the cup down with care. Almost too casually, she said, “I’m going to be an older sister.”

Shisui leaned back, brows rising. “So it’s true, then. I heard from my aunt Mikoto.”

Miyuki nodded, fingers playing with the rim of her cup. Her gaze turned thoughtful. “Itachi Uchiha is your cousin, isn’t he?” she asked, as if discussing the weather.

Shisui blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change in direction. “…That’s right. Why?”

Miyuki tilted her head, her voice musing, almost distant. “He’s younger than us, but he looks like he’s burning.”

Shisui frowned slightly, not sure what to make of that. “Burning?”

But Miyuki didn’t explain further. Instead, she reached to the side and drew out a neatly bound stack of pages—her newest manuscript. She set it on the table and slid it toward him. “Here. Give this to your aunt.”

Shisui raised a brow, intrigued. “And what if I wanted to read it, too?”

Miyuki gave him a cool, smug smile. “Then you can buy a copy once it’s published.”

For a moment, Shisui just looked at her, then grinned, wide and warm. “You really are mean to me, you know that?”

Miyuki lifted her chin, refusing to let her smile show—but her eyes betrayed a flicker of satisfaction. “Yes,” she said primly.

Shisui chuckled, and the sound lingered between them—gentle, steady, as though it was already becoming a habit neither of them wanted to break.

Chapter Text

The hospital room smelled faintly of antiseptic and fresh linen. Outside, rain pattered against the windows, but inside all was warm and soft light. Miyuki sat with her arms cradling the smallest bundle she had ever held. Sakura. Pink fuzz of hair barely visible, tiny breaths rising and falling against her chest.

For a moment, Miyuki thought of Sasuke—another baby, another mother, Mikoto. Had she given birth already? She wondered fleetingly if her manuscript had reached Mikoto’s hands, if she’d read Aya’s story, if she had smiled at it. But the thought drifted quickly away. She hadn’t really been waiting for a review. She’d already sent her story off to a publishing agency weeks ago.

Her world had narrowed to this room, to her mother recovering in bed, to her father hovering near, to the tiny weight in her arms. No longer wondering when Shisui would reappear, or if Ringo had seen her message, or if Kagami would turn up with his own piece offering like Shisui did. All of that felt far away, almost like another life.

This life—right now—was Sakura.

Miyuki gazed down at the newborn, her chest tightening in a way she hadn’t expected. She had thought she would feel protective, yes, but not this. This fierce, overwhelming, aching love. This child deserves more than canon ever gave her, Miyuki thought. Not a lonely single mother carrying the weight of an absent husband. Not the girl who had to claw her way to recognition. She deserves to know her worth from the very beginning. She deserves the world.

Her father’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Oi, don’t hog her forever. Can I get a chance too?” His tone was teasing, his smile wide.

Prim as ever, Miyuki lifted her chin. “Fine. But support her head properly,” she said as though issuing instructions to a careless subordinate. She handed Sakura over with great ceremony.

Kizashi chuckled. “You know, this is my second time now. I think I’ve got the hang of it.”

Mebuki laughed from the bed, her face pale but glowing with joy. “It’s like Miyuki is Sakura’s mother instead of me.”

Miyuki’s lips pressed together, and she didn’t answer at first. Her eyes lingered on her mother, then back to Sakura. Quietly, she asked, “Did the doctors say anything? Any abnormalities?”

Mebuki blinked. “No. She’s fine.”

Miyuki exhaled, relief slipping out in words before she could catch herself. “Good. I’m glad she’s normal.”

The room stilled. Her parents exchanged a look.

“Miyuki,” Kizashi said gently, his humor gone. “You’re normal too.”

She shook her head, her voice small but steady. “I’m defective. I don’t know what might happen with me. I might not even be here when Sakura grows up.”

“Miyuki!” Mebuki pushed herself off the bed despite Kizashi’s protest, wrapping her arms around her eldest fiercely. “Don’t talk like that. Don’t you dare. You are my daughter, and I love you so much. You have been well, and you will continue to be well. Everything will be fine.”

Kizashi, still holding Sakura carefully, put one hand on Miyuki’s back. “Listen to your mother. We’re not losing you. Not now, not ever.”

Tears blurred Miyuki’s eyes. She hated it—hated ruining the joy of the day with her own despair. “This is supposed to be Sakura’s day,” she choked out. “And I’m making it about myself again.” She wiped at her eyes, but the tears wouldn’t stop. “I can’t be a ninja. But I can be a writer. I’ll leave something behind. For you, for her. So if I…” She swallowed hard. “So if I’m not here, there’ll still be a piece of me.”

Kizashi’s voice was firm. “Don’t say if. You’re going to live to a hundred.”

Miyuki let out a watery laugh. “Gods, I hope not. I’d look so ugly with all those wrinkles.”

Her parents laughed with her, but the weight lingered.

Later, when the room was quieter and her parents were occupied with Sakura, Miyuki sat back and let her mind wander. She thought of canon—of what was supposed to happen, of the story she’d read and watched once upon a time. Was I ever meant to exist here? The question lodged deep in her chest.

—————

Miyuki held Sakura close against her chest, the baby’s soft gurgles like tiny bells of reassurance in her ears. At three months old, Sakura was alert, her pale green eyes darting around as though trying to drink in the whole world at once. Miyuki couldn’t help but smile.

“See?” she said proudly, pointing toward a bird hopping across the grass. “She watches everything. That means she’s going to be clever—sharper than anyone else.”

Ayako laughed, shaking her head. “You’ve become a doting older sister, Miyuki. I almost don’t recognize you.”

Miyuki’s lips tugged upward, though her eyes stayed fixed on Sakura’s curious gaze. “I can’t help it. She’s… she’s too perfect.”

Her words were light, but inside, a heaviness pressed against her chest. Because perfection was fragile in this world. She thought of Mikoto, of Sasuke, and of the fragile little string of peace that connected families in Konoha—always at risk of being cut.

Her steps slowed as she caught sight of a familiar figure up ahead. Kushina Uzumaki, radiant and round with life, her laughter carrying easily on the breeze as villagers greeted her. Miyuki froze.

Her heart stuttered. She remembered. The night. The screams. The fox’s roar tearing the sky apart. Minato’s sacrifice. Kushina’s death. And afterward, suspicion, blame twisted onto the Uchiha, and the slow tightening of a noose around Shisui, around Itachi, around all of them.

Her throat tightened, and she pressed her lips together. If Naruto’s birth is the trigger, if everything spirals from that night… how much time is left? Shisui… should I tell him? Should I warn him?

A wave of weakness dragged Miyuki to her knees, breath caught in her throat. She set Sakura down quickly, hands trembling as she spread the blanket for her. The baby blinked, startled, her little fists clenching the air as if reaching for Miyuki.

“Miyuki!” Ayako’s voice was sharp with alarm as she crouched beside her. “What’s happening? Should I call someone?”

Miyuki swallowed hard, forcing her lips to move. “No—don’t call. Let’s… let’s go to the hospital.” Her voice was steadier than she felt. Her heart pounded like it wanted to escape her chest, and the edges of her vision pulsed faintly dark.

It’s happening again.

Every time—every single time—when she came close to opening her mouth, to whispering the truth of what she knew… the world seemed to crush her lungs, to drag her down. Like invisible hands pressing her back into silence. She had thought of telling Shisui. Of warning him, of saying even a fragment of what she remembered. And then—this. Her body rebelling.

Her gaze fell on Sakura. Her baby sister lay calm against the blanket, eyes bright and curious, as if none of this darkness touched her. Miyuki’s chest twisted.

What does it mean? Sakura didn’t have me in canon. No sister. Am I an error? A mistake the world will erase before long?

“Miyuki.” Ayako’s hand pressed firmly on her shoulder, grounding her. “Stay with me. We’ll get to the hospital. Just hold on.”

Miyuki nodded faintly, though her thoughts spun in darker circles. She reached out, brushing her fingers over Sakura’s tiny hand. The baby cooed, as if nothing in the world was wrong.

⸻

The hospital room smelled faintly of antiseptic and herbs, the sterile quiet broken only by the steady tick of a clock. Miyuki sat propped against the thin pillows, her small hands folded neatly in her lap. Across from her, the doctor studied her chart with a worried crease between his brows.

“Her vitals have stabilized,” he said at last, “but the strain on her system isn’t random. Her body reacts as though her chakra is… fluctuating. Which is unusual in a civilian child. She has no training, no control exercises. And yet, the pattern repeats.”

Ayako’s lips pressed into a thin line. She had one arm curved protectively around Sakura, the baby drowsy against her chest. “I’ve seen her episodes before. But you’re telling me it’s chakra, even though she’s never used a drop of ninjutsu in her life?”

The doctor gave a grave nod. “Exactly. And until we understand why, she’ll need to stay overnight again for monitoring.”

Miyuki tilted her head, her expression calm—almost too calm for a child. “It’s nothing new, Ayako. You should take Sakura home. My parents know how this goes.”

Ayako’s eyes softened despite her frown. She’d been hired to help with Miyuki while Mebuki and Kizashi worked, and over time, she’d seen enough episodes to know Miyuki wasn’t exaggerating. Still, every time it happened, it clawed at her nerves.

“You shouldn’t speak as though this is routine,” Ayako murmured, shifting her weight onto her good leg. “It may not be new, but it’s not normal.”

Miyuki’s gaze slipped to the baby in Ayako’s arms. Sakura blinked sleepily, clutching at the edge of Ayako’s kimono. Something tender flickered in Miyuki’s eyes. “Sakura doesn’t need to see me weak. She deserves to believe the world is safe.”

Ayako studied her, quietly impressed. This wasn’t the dramatics of a spoiled child; it was the poise of someone carrying burdens far beyond her years.

“You’re more mature than you should be,” Ayako said softly, brushing Sakura’s back in a slow, soothing motion. “But don’t mistake maturity for strength. You’re allowed to be cared for too, Miyuki.”

Miyuki gave the faintest smile, a prim little curve of her lips. “Maybe. But tonight, I’ll be fine. Just tell my parents… not to worry too much.”

Ayako sighed, torn between pride and worry, then finally nodded. “I’ll tell them. But don’t expect me to stop hovering tomorrow.”

As Ayako left, Miyuki leaned back against the pillows, her face composed, but her thoughts restless.

Civilian or not, this body rebels whenever I push too close to truths it doesn’t want revealed. The world doesn’t care that I’m harmless—it only cares that I don’t change its story.

Night crept on. Nurses checked, scribbled, and left. Miyuki wrote nothing—she wasn’t writing tonight; instead she pressed her palm to the place her heart beat and counted things that might save people: recipes to teach to Sakura, lines of stories to leave behind, names she could say loud enough they would be remembered. She practiced steady breathing like a litany: in, out; in, out.

When the morning light diluted the fluorescent glare, her parents arrived together—Mebuki with hair mussed from sleep and worry, Kizashi with a thermos and two paper fans because he’d decided the hospital tea was better than none. Mebuki’s hand hovered near Miyuki as if afraid to touch too roughly. Kizashi’s face was that stupid, comforting grin—too tender for farce today.

They fussed, asked the expected questions. Kizashi tried jokes and Miyuki gave the usual measured replies. Mebuki hovered like a storm she wouldn’t admit, gentle and sharp in the same breath.

“Is it just for another night?” Mebuki asked the doctor when he popped his head in.

The doctor nodded. “It’s precautionary. Her chakra patterns are unusual. We don’t have reason to panic, but we won’t risk it either.”

Kizashi sat down beside Miyuki, forcing his voice bright. “You were a very good patient last night, they tell me. I brought pastries. Do you want the strawberry or the bean?”

Miyuki allowed herself the smallest, theatrical sigh before answering. “Strawberry, naturally. One must maintain standards even in convalescence.”

They laughed, partly to keep the edges of panic at bay.

The hospital wing settled into its usual hush as night deepened, the lanterns outside casting long shadows across the corridors. Miyuki sat upright in bed, a book propped neatly in her lap, though her eyes had drifted long past the page.

The door creaked softly. A figure slipped in, dark hair mussed, steps casual but careful.

“Shisui?” Miyuki blinked.

He gave her a wry smile. “I was wandering past and overheard some nurses whispering about a very well-spoken, spoiled little princess. Naturally, I thought of you.”

Her lips pressed. “How flattering.” Then her gaze sharpened, catching the pale hospital gown he wore. “You’re admitted too?”

Shisui shrugged, his grin not quite reaching his eyes. “Coincidence. You know I can’t tell you what happened.”

Miyuki let the silence stretch, then tilted her head. “Fine. Then tell me about Ringo and Kagami.”

His brows rose, amusement flickering. “Are you actually interested in Kagami? Or just being polite?”

She arched one delicate brow. “Since when am I polite with you?”

That drew a soft chuckle out of him. He leaned against the wall, folding his arms. “True. Ringo will swing by soon, she was asking after you. Kagami… is on an extended mission.”

Miyuki pouted, her voice dry as she turned a page she hadn’t read. “So you’ve told me nothing useful at all.”

“Some would call that my specialty.”

He crossed the room and sat carefully at the edge of her bed. The teasing softened into something quieter. “You alright?”

Miyuki stared at the pale wall before answering. “The same as always. I feel like I live on the edge of death. Like a shinobi—but without any of the freedoms. Or the flashy, cool jutsu.”

Shisui’s smile dimmed. “When are ninja ever free?”

That silenced her. She looked at him, surprised by the weight in his voice. “That’s usually my line. I’m supposed to be the cynic, you the patriot.”

Shisui leaned back until he lay flat against the thin mattress beside her, one arm thrown over his eyes to block the light. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Then, voice low and unguarded, he said simply:

“…I’m stressed.”

The words hung in the quiet, stripped of his usual easy grin.

Miyuki turned her head, studying him as he lay stretched out beside her, his arm draped over his eyes as though blocking out not just the light, but the weight of the world. Stressed, he’d said. So simple. Too simple.

Her mind itched with the weight of all she knew but could never say. The coup. The massacre. His suicide. The way the dominoes would fall, starting soon after Naruto’s birth. Her throat burned as if the words themselves scorched her from the inside, begging release. If she told him, maybe—

A sharp stab of pain lanced through her skull. Miyuki winced, pressing her fingers to her temple, lips parting in a soft gasp.

Shisui shifted immediately, his hand brushing her shoulder. “Hey. You okay?” His voice was unguarded now, full of concern.

She ignored the question, forcing her breath steady. “Shisui… will you tell me what’s wrong?”

He froze. His hand lingered on her shoulder, but his easy grin slid back into place like a mask. “It’s nothing you need to worry about. Just… shinobi things. You know how it is.”

“No,” Miyuki cut him off, sharper than usual. “Don’t do that. Don’t brush me off.”

His brows furrowed, but she caught his hand before he could pull away, holding it tightly in her smaller, frailer grip. Her palm trembled, but her voice was steady.

He told himself not to look too long, not to care too much. But the thought of her collapsing again hollowed something in his chest.

“Be honest with me. Like I am with you. We’re friends, aren’t we? I wasn’t just some side-quest mission you and your team got assigned to. If I matter, if I’m more than that, then prove it. Tell me.”

Shisui’s dark eyes widened. “Side quest mission?” He repeated the words slowly, like they were foreign. “What makes you think like that?”

“Because I’m not anyone important,” Miyuki said bitterly. “I’m just a sick civilian girl. A D-rank distraction slotted between Kagami, Ringo, and all your amazing adventures. You come, you go, and I’m just… here.”

Shisui’s eyes softened, but his voice carried quiet resolve.
“You are part of the village, Miyuki. Kagami, Ringo, and I—we fight to protect it, everyone in it. That’s what matters to me. Protecting everyone in the village.”

Miyuki shook her head sharply, cutting him off.
“I don’t want to be some backdrop you protect because it’s your duty. I want to be your friend. And friends… they let each other in.”

Shisui froze, her words striking deeper than he expected, leaving him momentarily at a loss for an answer.

Shisui broke the silence first, his voice quieter than before.
“Last time we spoke… you said Itachi looked like he was burning.”

Miyuki blinked, tilting her head.

He gave a short, almost humorless laugh. “Yeah. You were right. He’s a prodigy—four years younger than me, and honestly… he might already be strong enough to win against me. But he doesn’t have anyone his own age who understands him. His classmates don’t connect, and the rest… they either fear him or resent him.” Shisui’s jaw tightened. “And then I learned something. During the war… Uncle Fugaku actually took him to the battlefield.” His hands curled into fists. “He was just a child. My little brother in all but blood. And Aunt Mikoto—why didn’t she say something? Why didn’t she stop him?”

Miyuki frowned, her voice low and careful. “Are you angry with them… or confused why they thought it was right?”

That gave Shisui pause. His expression faltered, uncertainty flashing in his eyes. “…Both.”

Miyuki let out a small breath. “If I were writing Mikoto and Fugaku as characters in a story, I’d guess they thought Itachi would gain something from it. Experience. Perspective. Maybe they believed he’d be stronger for it.”

Shisui didn’t respond right away, but his silence was heavy with thought.

She studied him quietly before adding, “But Itachi’s still a child. Prodigy or not, he hasn’t lived enough to really understand the world. Experiences like that don’t make sense at his age—they just… leave scars.”

Shisui’s shoulders sagged. He exhaled slowly, frustration weighing his tone. “When I look at him, I think I understand what you meant. That burning. Sometimes, when he’s with Sasuke, he looks like a normal kid. But then at clan meetings… it’s like he puts up a wall around himself. Something he hides behind to survive.”

Miyuki’s expression softened. “The only thing you can do is be kind. Remind him that you’re there. You can’t force him to open up… but knowing you’re there might be what he needs most.”

“I know,” Shisui admitted, raking a hand through his hair. “But it’s frustrating. The people meant to protect you shouldn’t be the ones pushing you past the edge. If I ever became a father…” his voice trailed, thick with feeling, “I can’t imagine ever doing that to someone I love.”

Miyuki blinked at him, forcing her voice light, though her chest felt tight. “Did… did you read my manuscript?”

Shisui raised an eyebrow, his tone light and measured. “You told me to give it to
Aunt Mikoto, Miyuki. I was supposed to wait until it’s published.”

Miyuki’s lips pressed together in a small line, a faint regret flickering across her expression—one she tried to mask. She didn’t admit it aloud, but Shisui caught the shadow of it in her eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, half-amused, half-curious.

“I… it should be out in a few days,” she said softly, almost to herself. She glanced at him quickly, as if hoping he hadn’t noticed the regret lacing her tone.

Shisui’s gaze softened just enough, a subtle warmth in his eyes. “When it comes out… you’ll sign my copy, right?”

Miyuki gave a sharp, playful glare, hiding the edge of embarrassment behind her usual composure. “Hmph. You’ll have to camp outside my house for that. No excuses.”

For a few moments, the room held a fragile warmth—the kind of jovial, easy energy that always felt just slightly out of reach for the two of them. But the fragile calm shattered with a sudden, violent eruption from outside.

Shouts, screams, and the roar of something impossibly powerful filled the air. Red chakra flared across the village like fire in the sky. Miyuki’s chest tightened. Her stomach lurched. The realization hit before words could form.

“The Nine-Tails…” she whispered.

Her legs gave way beneath her. Instinctively, Shisui’s hand shot out, catching her as she started to collapse. His expression sharpened instantly, every muscle tense, eyes scanning the chaos beyond the window. “Miyuki, hold on!”

Panic threaded through him—not just at the chaos outside, but at her sudden, frail state. Her pulse felt erratic under his fingers, her breathing shallow. “We need to get you out,” he said, voice firm but low.

The room erupted into coordinated chaos. Villagers shouted, guards ran past, and the sharp tang of fear—and chakra—cut through the air. Shisui adjusted his hold, tucking her against him like a shield. Miyuki felt herself growing lighter, weaker, as the world spun around her.

She tried to speak, tried to form a word, but only a small whimper escaped. Her vision flickered with red and shadow. All at once, her mind narrowed to a single point of focus: Shisui’s face, determined, tense, unwavering.

“Don’t go…” she murmured, though the sound was barely there.

“I won’t,” he promised, teeth clenched.

Everything blurred but him. The world burned, but his arms were steady. The last thing she saw was his face, sharp against the glow, eyes like anchors in the storm.

Then everything went black.

Chapter Text

Miyuki’s eyes fluttered open. Darkness pressed around her, the air heavy and cool, smelling faintly of damp stone and herbs. Her head throbbed, and for a moment she couldn’t remember where she was. Then a soft, steady presence pressed against her, and the memory returned in a rush—the Nine-Tails, the village chaos, Shisui’s arms…

“Shh, easy,” a calm voice murmured. A medic ninja hovered over her, robes slightly dusty from the evacuation. “You’re safe for now. You had a strong reaction to the Nine-Tails’ chakra in the air. It… overwhelmed your constitution temporarily. You should start feeling a bit better soon, but don’t rush it.”

Miyuki’s chest rose and fell more steadily as she tried to sit up, the tension in her body easing just enough. Her gaze found Shisui, kneeling close, eyes scanning her face with the faintest crease of worry.

“Shisui…” her voice was hoarse. “…what about my parents? And Sakura?”

Shisui’s eyes softened. He gave a small nod toward the medic. “I passed your parents on the way. They’re fine. I made sure you weren’t taken to just any post—you’re with a medic who can watch you properly. Sakura’s safe too. They’ll be okay. You don’t have to worry.”

Miyuki let out a soft sigh, finally allowing herself to sink a little more against the tunnel wall. “I’m glad… my parents and Sakura are fine,” she said quietly, looking up at Shisui. “But… what about you? Your family, your clan… you should check on them.”

Shisui’s jaw tightened. He wanted to nod, to reassure her, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.“But…” His eyes flicked to hers, lingering on her frail figure against the dim light of the tunnel. “…I don’t want to leave you.”

Miyuki’s expression softened slightly about to protest that she was not be treated like a damsel but she found her hand brushed against the wall as if to steady herself, her chest still rising and falling unevenly from the aftereffects of the Nine-Tails’ chakra surge.

The medic ninja hovering nearby stepped closer, their voice calm but firm. “Shisui. You need to stay back for now. The village is in chaos, yes—but until we get orders, no one should be moving out alone. You’re needed here too.” Gesturing toward the other injured civilians, guiding Shisui’s attention. “Go. Help them. Make sure they’re steady before we move them further. We’ll keep an eye on her.”

Shisui’s gaze flicked to Miyuki, a faint hesitance in his dark eyes. “…I’ll be back,” he said quietly, more to himself than to her. Then, with a swift motion, he slipped from the tunnel, moving toward the cluster of evacuees.

Miyuki watched him go, her small body pressed against the cold stone. The tunnel was quiet now, only the soft murmur of other injured civilians and the medic’s occasional instructions filling the space. Her chest tightened—not from pain, but from the knowledge of what was coming.

The Nine-Tails’ chakra still lingered in the air, faint and oppressive, like a reminder that nothing could stay peaceful for long. Miyuki let her mind wander, thinking of the future she had glimpsed but could not change. Naruto’s birth. Shisui’s death, just six or seven years from now. The world spiraling toward canon events she knew all too well: Sakura turning twelve, Sasuke’s path of vengeance, Naruto’s rise as the village’s shining hope, the invasion by the Sand, Pain’s assault, and yet another ninja war.

Her chest ached. She would be lucky merely to observe. Lucky to witness, but powerless to intervene.

Miyuki pressed her forehead to her knees, breathing shallowly, resigning herself to a simple watcher.

Shisui’s laugh broke faintly through the distance—a soft, almost private sound as he steadied a young boy too frightened to walk alone. It struck Miyuki with the cruelest poignancy. He looked like a hero. He looked like a child. And he looked like someone she would not be able to save.

Her hands clenched loosely, tracing the stone beneath her. She was already mourning her friend.

———-

The tunnel’s shadows and chaos had long since faded from memory. Miyuki now sat on a patched mat in what remained of her home, sunlight filtering weakly through shattered windows. Six month baby Sakura sat before her, tiny hands reaching up to pat her sister’s face, giggling with the pure, unselfconscious joy only a child could muster. Miyuki couldn’t help but laugh softly, brushing the pink fuzz of hair off her shoulder.

Her book, now published under the pseudonym Kocho, rested on a low table nearby. The cover bore an elegant illustration, the title simple but evocative. It hadn’t received the immediate recognition she had hoped for—not that it mattered in the grand scheme of things. The timing had been terrible. Konoha was still reeling from the Nine-Tails’ attack; the destruction had been swift and merciless, leaving entire streets in ruins, families displaced, and a pervasive tension that made any distraction—books, art, or otherwise—feel almost trivial.

The third Hokage had been called back into office, trying to stabilize what remained of the village, patching the economy and morale at the same time. Markets were slowly reopening, but shortages of food, medicine, and basic supplies were common. Many families lived in temporary shelters, tents stitched together from remnants of fallen homes, or in crowded, shared quarters with neighbors they barely knew. Miyuki could hear the low murmur of adults outside, talking about missing relatives, burned buildings, and the uncertainty of rebuilding lives that had been shattered in a single night.

Sakura cooed at her, lifting tiny hands as if to reach for her sister’s face again. Miyuki’s chest tightened. Life persisted, even in the midst of devastation. Civilians were resilient, but she could see the toll etched into their eyes. Parents were exhausted beyond words, their children clinging tightly to them. Elderly villagers shuffled slowly through the streets, their legs unsteady but their spirits determined to survive.

She thought of Shisui, though she hadn’t seen him since that night in the tunnel. A part of her was grateful for the distance. Pretending to be normal friends, sharing casual jokes, was impossible now. She carried the knowledge of his fate like a weight pressing on her chest—the knowledge that she could not change what was coming. To interact with him as if everything were ordinary would be cruel, both to him and to herself. And yet, guilt lingered. She missed the comfort of his presence, the easy banter, the way he had quietly protected her without needing acknowledgment.

Sometimes she thought she saw him in the crowd — the quick turn of a head, a familiar gait — but it was only the ache of memory playing tricks.

Miyuki shifted Sakura onto her lap, letting the little girl face her, bright green eyes sparkling with innocent curiosity. She hummed softly, a lullaby that had no name, the words improvised from memory and instinct. Around them, the world was still broken, and yet the simple act of caring, of being present, felt like resistance.

The village streets outside were a patchwork of rubble and recovery. Blackened beams leaned against partially rebuilt homes. Market stalls were modest, overflowing with second-hand wares, donated supplies, and whatever food had survived. Families traded what little they had with neighbors, forming fragile chains of survival and community. The air still carried faint traces of smoke, ash settling on clothes and hair, a persistent reminder of the night the Nine-Tails had struck.

Miyuki stared down at her little sister, brushing a soft curl from her forehead. She thought of the future—the stories she would write, the life she would try to guide Sakura toward, the vigilance required to navigate a village that had been shaken to its core. Even now, months later, the village was in tension, eyes wary of every sound, every shadow. Children no longer played freely in the streets; laughter was cautious, measured. Adults moved quickly, prioritizing survival over leisure, rebuilding homes, comforting neighbors, salvaging what could be saved.

Her thoughts drifted to the people she had seen in the tunnel: the elderly woman Shisui had steadied, the children who clutched their parents’ hands, the medics tirelessly moving from one person to the next. So much suffering, so much bravery. Miyuki wanted to do more, but she could not. She had no jutsu, no strength comparable to the shinobi protecting the village. She could only observe, care for Sakura, and leave her mark in words—her stories a small defiance against the world attacks her body.

The afternoon sun slanted through the broken roof, dust motes dancing in the beams. Sakura reached out, clasping Miyuki’s fingers and smiling with utter trust. Miyuki smiled back, pressing a gentle kiss to her sister’s head. Even as the village healed slowly around them, even as the memory of the Nine-Tails’ fury lingered, she had this—this small, fragile, perfect life in the form of her little sister.

And for now, that was enough.

————-

Eight months had passed since the Nine-Tails’ attack, and Miyuki watched with a mixture of pride and amusement as little Sakura stood unsteadily on her tiny feet, wobbling forward with arms outstretched.

“She’s going to be running by next month, mark my words,” Miyuki boasted to her parents, crouching slightly to encourage her sister.

Mebuki chuckled, shaking her head. “You always have such high expectations, Miyuki.”

Miyuki grinned, firm in her conviction. “She’ll meet them all. I just know it.”

Kizashi, raising an eyebrow, crossed his arms. “You’re spoiling her too much, Miyuki.”

Miyuki shrugged, still keeping an eye on Sakura. “I’m not spoiling her. I’m loving her fiercely.”

Mebuki laughed softly, a warm sound in the quiet of their home. “Have you… spoken to Shisui lately?”

Miyuki froze, looking uncomfortable. “No… well, I haven’t seen Shisui since that night the Nine-Tails attacked.”

Mebuki’s expression softened. “Things are hard, but they’re quieting down now. If you want, you can ask Mikoto about a playdate with Sasuke and Sakura. You could even… talk to Shisui.”

Miyuki waved her hand dismissively. “You don’t need to go out of your way for that.”

“It’s not going out of my way,” Mebuki said firmly. “Shisui is your friend. I’m grateful for what he did that night, and if you are friends, I’ll help you maintain that friendship.”

Miyuki narrowed her eyes playfully. “Mom… it sounds like you’re trying to set me up.”

Kizashi cleared his throat and leaned back slightly, mock indignation in his voice. “I thought we agreed we’d wait until Miyuki was twenty before letting her date anyone.”

Miyuki made a face at him. “Twenty? That’s way too late, Dad.”

Mebuki sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “It’s not like that. I just… you look happy when you’re around Shisui.”

“Happy?” Miyuki echoed. “I’m happy around Ayako, Ringo, and Sakura too. Maybe I could ask around about Ringo, actually—she still hasn’t come to see me.”

Her parents fell quiet, exchanging a glance that Miyuki immediately noticed. There was something they weren’t telling her, something heavy behind their eyes.

“Did something happen?” Miyuki asked, her voice firm. “Tell me.”

Mebuki let out a long sigh, clearly frustrated. “Shisui said he would tell you.”

Miyuki’s heart dropped. “Tell me what?”

Kizashi reached over, gently placing a hand on her shoulder, his eyes solemn. “Ringo… was KIA during the Nine-Tails attack.”

The room seemed to fall silent as Miyuki absorbed the news. Her chest tightened, the weight of the information settling over her like a stone. She stared at her hands, gripping the edge of the table, trying to process that Ringo—the friend she had once laughed with, confided in—was gone.

Chapter Text

Three years had passed. Miyuki was thirteen now, standing behind the counter of a small, cozy bookstore tucked into a quieter street of Konoha. Sunlight filtered through the wide windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the golden rays. The smell of old paper, ink, and faint polish filled the air, comforting and familiar.

She worked quietly, stacking books, tidying shelves, and helping customers locate the stories they wanted. Her fairy tale collection—published under the pseudonym Kocho—rested prominently on a low display near the entrance. Occasionally, she watched as a child’s eyes lit up over the colorful illustrations, a private warmth blooming in her chest.

Miyuki kept herself deliberately on the periphery of village life. She avoided canon figures, moving like a shadow in the bustling streets, interacting only with the ordinary people who passed through the bookstore or lived nearby. In this way, she existed in the world without disturbing it—an observer, a minor note in the symphony of Konoha’s recovery. Everyone but Sakura’s world remained a background she could navigate safely.

She hadn’t spoken to Shisui since that night in the tunnel, and Ringo’s absence was a weight she carried quietly, never mentioned. Those memories lingered, tucked away beneath her daily routines. She knew her place: she could watch, she could care, she could write—but she could not interfere.

A customer approached the counter, a young boy clutching a worn notebook. “Excuse me, do you have any books with dragons?” he asked, eyes bright.

Miyuki smiled, crouching slightly to meet his gaze. “Of course,” she said, guiding him toward a shelf filled with fantastical stories. “Here, these might be exactly what you’re looking for.”

The boy’s face lit up, and Miyuki felt the same quiet satisfaction she always did when someone engaged with her little corner of the world. These small moments—the laugh of a child, the fascination of a reader—were enough to anchor her.

After the sale, she returned to the counter, arranging books and checking the stock. She moved through the aisles, a quiet presence among the bustle of everyday life. She kept to herself, careful not to cross paths with the village’s shinobi too often, avoiding any ripples that might draw her into their chaos.

Her thoughts drifted occasionally to Sakura, now a lively, curious three-year-old, full of questions and unbounded energy. For her little sister, she could be a part of the story; for the rest of the world, she remained a ghost—present but unnoticed.

The world outside was fragile and still recovering from the Nine-Tails’ attack, but inside the bookstore, Miyuki had found a small refuge. Here, she could touch lives in subtle ways, leave traces of joy and imagination, and yet remain safe from the tides of fate that she had seen coming.

And for now, that was enough.

————

Miyuki’s footsteps echoed lightly in the narrow hallway of the Konoha medical clinic, a small bag of books slung over her shoulder.

Her fainting spells had decreased dramatically over the past year. Not perfect, certainly—she was hardly the picture of a normal child—but going an entire year without collapsing was a milestone. Each step toward normalcy was hard-won, and she felt it like a private victory, tucked away beneath her careful calm.

“Ah, Miyuki,” the familiar voice greeted her before she could even knock. Dr. Saigawa leaned back in his chair, spectacles perched crookedly on his nose, the same warm smile she had known since she was a little girl. “Come in, come in. How are we feeling today?”

Miyuki smiled, dropping her bag onto the counter. “Better than last time, I think. No fainting, no sudden dizziness… so far.”

Dr. Saigawa chuckled softly, leaning forward. “That’s excellent. Your constitution is improving. I suppose all that reading is better for your nerves than I ever suspected.”

“I wouldn’t call it all reading,” Miyuki said with a small smirk, “though it does keep my mind busy. Less room for… surprises, you know.”

He nodded knowingly. “I do indeed. And speaking of reading—my granddaughter was thrilled with the book you sent. She hasn’t put it down. I must admit, she’s already picked out her favorite story twice this week.”

Miyuki’s eyes brightened at the mention, her modest pride showing despite herself. “I’m glad. I wrote it under a pseudonym, so I wasn’t expecting her to even know who it was from. But if it brought her joy…” She shrugged, cheeks tinged with pink. “…that’s enough.”

Dr. Saigawa’s expression softened. “It’s more than enough. You’ve always had a gift for observing the world. That’s why your writing feels so alive—you see details others miss.”

Miyuki’s hands tightened slightly on the strap of her bag. “I see more than I should sometimes,” she admitted quietly, almost to herself. “I’ve learned to keep out of the storylines I don’t belong to.”

He nodded, brushing a strand of gray hair back from his forehead. “That’s wise. You’re doing exceptionally well, Miyuki. A full year without an episode—this is progress I never thought I’d see so soon. I’m proud of you.”

She let herself relax in his presence, grateful for this quiet reprieve. “Thank you, Doctor.”

He smiled, reaching for her chart. “Well, we’ll continue monitoring, but I suspect you’re becoming a remarkable example of quiet resilience. Keep doing what you’re doing. And keep writing. Who knows how many little hearts you’ll touch with your stories.”

Miyuki gave a small, thoughtful nod. “I’ll try. That’s the plan, anyway.”

————
Miyuki stepped out of the clinic, adjusting the strap of her bag. The sun was high, warming her cheeks. She had her mind on Sakura, on books to organize at the store, on errands that kept her busy.

She didn’t notice the figure ahead until almost brushing past him.

“Oh—Miyuki,” a familiar voice called, a little tight, a little unsure.

She froze. Shisui Uchiha stood a few steps away, his cloak slightly dusty, a faint tension in his posture. Embarrassment—or maybe guilt—was written across his face.

Miyuki hesitated, taking in the sight of him. It had been three years. Three years since the night in the tunnel, since the chaos of the Nine-Tails, since she had decided to remain distant. She had assumed his missions, the demands of his clan, and the aftermath of the attack would keep him away forever.

“I… I didn’t see you,” she said carefully, instinctively stepping to the side, ready to walk past.

Shisui’s dark eyes followed her, earnest and heavy. “Are you… mad at me?”

Miyuki paused, looking at him without speaking. Silence stretched, her mind flicking to all the reasons she had avoided contact.

He continued, softer now, almost hesitant. “About… Ringo. I—I should have told you. I didn’t…”

A sting pierced Miyuki’s chest. Ringo. Her friend, gone in the chaos of the Nine-Tails’ assault. She swallowed hard, the memory of their laughter in the garden, the small kindnesses now lost, pressing against her heart.

“I’m… I’m sorry about Ringo, too,” Miyuki murmured. Her voice carried the quiet grief of years tucked away.

Shisui’s expression faltered—guilt, sadness, hurt, all mingled in his dark eyes. For a moment, he looked almost like looked like a man rather than a boy.

“You… you don’t really owe me any explanations,” Miyuki said carefully, her hands tightening on her bag strap.

“I do,” he replied firmly. “After the Nine-Tails attack…” His voice faltered, and he glanced around the busy hospital hallway as if the walls themselves might judge him.

He hesitated, then added, almost shyly, “Can I… walk you home?”

Miyuki’s instinct was to say no. To remind herself that she didn’t need to get involved, that she had chosen to keep her distance for a reason. She shouldn’t be friends with him. She couldn’t save him from the plot that loomed over the village.

And yet… she remembered the hero in the tunnels, the quiet, steady presence who had helped the villagers without fanfare.

Her shoulders relaxed slightly. She nodded, allowing a small smile to curve her lips. “Fine. But my time is precious,” she warned lightly, trying to reclaim her usual poise. “If you have something to say… you better dazzle me.”

Shisui’s lips curved into a slow, almost shy smile. “Of course, Hime,” he said softly, this time the Japanese honorific catching her off guard. His tone carried a warmth, a careful reverence, that made the busyness of the street fade just a little.

The walk was quiet for a while, their footsteps soft on the cobblestones. Miyuki kept her gaze forward, careful not to give away too much—old memories, old regrets. Shisui walked beside her, hands tucked into his cloak, the faintest tension in his shoulders betraying his composure.

“After the war… and the Kyubi attack,” Shisui began, voice low, measured, “the Fourth was gone. Konoha couldn’t linger. They needed shinobi completing missions, sustaining the village… keeping trade alive. There was concern… other villages might see an opening.”

Miyuki’s thoughts flickered: Again, don’t get involved. She stayed silent, scanning the street, careful to maintain her composure.

“I like to believe we’re still… friends,” he continued, eyes briefly meeting hers, dark and earnest. “And if that’s true, I owe my friend a reason for not making the time to see her.”

She said nothing, keeping her gaze fixed on the carved faces of the Hokage Mountain. Finally, she asked quietly, cautiously, “How’s Kagami? And… Itachi?”

A mild throb pressed at her temples, warning her against the line of questioning, but she ignored it, keeping her voice steady.

“Kagami’s… engaged with the T&I department, organizing missions,” Shisui replied, his tone calm, factual. “Itachi… has already mastered the Sharingan. He’s preparing for the Chunin exams. Diligent, relentless… and precise. He’s… improving.” His voice held pride, but it was tempered by weariness, the weight of someone who had seen far too much responsibility placed on young shoulders.

Miyuki nodded faintly, letting the words settle. “Sakura’s three now,” she said, forcing a lightness into her tone. “Still very prim… but she keeps asking questions. She told me she wants to be a ninja.”

Shisui’s lips curved in the faintest smile. “Are you proud?” he asked, a small teasing note threading through his quiet tone.

Miyuki’s chest tightened slightly, a shadow passing over her smile. “She… saw a medic ninja help me once,” she said, voice soft. “And she said she wants to be a ninja… to protect me.” She laughed quietly, dry and small. “Funny… a three-year-old thinks I’m weak enough to need protecting.”

Shisui’s gaze softened, unwavering. “I think… she sees the right truth. Not that you’re weak… but that she loves you fiercely. That’s enough.”

Miyuki let his words settle, absorbing them. She shifted slightly, the tension in her shoulders easing. “And you… how’s your health?”

“Better than last I checked,” he replied calmly, a trace of humor in his otherwise steady voice. “And you?”

“I’ve been better in the last three years… not seeing you,” Miyuki said carefully. “Maybe it’s a sign.”

A low, quiet chuckle escaped him. “You’re still… sharp with me.”

They reached her home, and Miyuki was ready to end the encounter, nod politely, and disappear inside. But Shisui held out a book.

It was Aya, her book about healing—worn at the edges, softened from repeated readings. She blinked, cheeks warming, embarrassed at how loved it looked.

“You promised a signature,” he said quietly, calm, teasing just enough to make her glance at him.

“You were supposed to camp outside my house for that,” she replied lightly.

Shisui’s lips twitched. “Someone from the Uchiha Police would think I was stalking you.”

“I assumed that’s what you’re doing now” Miyuki said, taking the book from him.

She opened the first page and signed her pseudonym, Kocho, then added her real name, Miyuki, beneath it.

Shisui’s head tilted slightly, the faintest smirk touching his lips. “Resale value might be higher now.”

“You better keep this as a family heirloom,” she said firmly.

She stepped inside, the warm scent of home welcoming her. Tiny, frantic feet pounded toward her.

“Miyu-nee!”

Sakura barreled forward, arms wide. Miyuki knelt and scooped her up, laughing despite herself.

Shisui lingered just outside, cloak rustling softly in the breeze.

⸻

The living room looked like a battlefield of toys and picture books. Wooden blocks sprawled across the floor in uneven rows, dolls propped up in mismatched “tea party” seats, and a line of stuffed animals facing the wall because Sakura had decided they were “in trouble.”

Miyuki sat on the tatami, chin resting on her hand, watching her sister march a toy kunai across the carpet.

“Who are you defeating now?” Miyuki asked, voice warm with amusement.

Sakura puffed out her cheeks. “The bad guys! They’re hiding in the kitchen.” She pointed dramatically with the toy. “But don’t worry, I’m super strong!”

“Super strong, hm?” Miyuki tilted her head. “Stronger than me?”

“Yes,” Sakura declared without hesitation, standing tall on her little legs. Then, in a burst of energy, she ran over and tried to push Miyuki onto her back. Miyuki let out an exaggerated gasp, falling dramatically as Sakura squealed in triumph.

“Down you go, Nee-chan!” Sakura giggled, crawling onto Miyuki’s stomach to declare victory. “See? I told you I’m the strongest.”

Miyuki laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind Sakura’s ear. “You’re definitely stronger than me.” She booped Sakura’s nose, making her shriek with delight. “But don’t tell anyone, or they’ll all want to challenge you.”

Sakura clapped her hands, grinning ear to ear. Then, just as suddenly, she rested her small head against Miyuki’s chest. “I like playing with you, Nee-chan,” she said softly, her words carrying that blunt, unfiltered honesty of a child.

Miyuki froze for a heartbeat, overwhelmed by the warmth that swelled in her chest. She hugged her sister tightly, breathing in the faint scent of soap and sweets. “I like playing with you too,” she whispered.

But even as Sakura’s laughter filled the room, Miyuki’s thoughts drifted elsewhere. To Shisui—his easy grin, their easy friendship. She had chosen to keep her distance, to root herself in Sakura’s world instead. Yet the hollow ache of his absence lingered like a bruise she couldn’t press without wincing.

She kissed the top of Sakura’s head, forcing a smile back onto her lips. “You’re my whole world, you know that?”

Sakura giggled and hugged her tighter, perfectly content.

Miyuki wished she could do more. But for now, all she could do was write happy endings for other people—and pretend they could be real.

Chapter Text

Miyuki leaned against the end of the shelf, pretending to straighten a row of paperbacks while her eyes flicked—again—toward the corner table. A young boy sat hunched over one of her books, lips moving as he followed each word with his finger. She caught the moment his brow furrowed in concentration, then softened with wonder, and she couldn’t help but smile to herself.

“You’ve got odd hobbies.”

The voice at her back made her jump so violently that she let out a startled scream. Several customers turned their heads. Flustered, Miyuki spun around to find Shisui standing there with a grin that was entirely too pleased with itself.

Her face heated instantly. “Why are you here?” she hissed, trying to compose herself.

He arched a brow. “Is this how you greet all your customers?”

Mortified, Miyuki crossed her arms. “What do you want?”

Instead of answering, Shisui reached over to the nearest display and plucked up one of her children’s fairy tales. He flipped it open idly. “You haven’t written anything like Aya again.”

Miyuki’s lips pressed into a thin line. “…I haven’t found the inspiration. Besides, Aya wasn’t even that popular.” Her tone was a touch too sharp, trying to mask the pang of insecurity.

“Mm.” Shisui tilted the book toward the light, his expression unreadable. “It’s popular with shinobi I know. Maybe civilians don’t understand what it means to carry scars. To be a war veteran.”

Miyuki exhaled, huffing. “I didn’t write it just for shinobi. It was supposed to be for everyone. Especially civilians.”

“Most civilians like romance,” he countered easily. “Maybe instead of Aya and Shiki ending in heartbreak, you should try writing a love story.”

Her glare sharpened. “I’m not a sellout. If you want bad romance and wish-fulfillment characters, you can read Icha Icha Tactics.”

Shisui snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’d hurt Jiraiya-sama’s feelings talking like that.”

Rolling her eyes, Miyuki said flatly, “Why are you really here?”

“Wanted to say hi to the Yuki Hime of the bookstore.”

She blinked. “The what?”

“Yuki Hime.” His grin widened. “You’ve got a bit of a reputation—dismissing shinobi, keeping your distance. It stuck.”

Miyuki’s cheeks flared red again. “I was just… staying out of the way.” She narrowed her eyes. “Who calls me that?”

“Can’t give away my comrades’ names.” He was maddeningly smug.

“Unbelievable.” She sighed, waving him off. “If you’re done teasing me, leave me be. I’m working.”

“Actually,” he said lightly, ignoring her dismissal, “I’ve got some time off. Thought I’d see if you were free later.”

Miyuki arched a brow. “The Land of Fire must be very peaceful these days.”

Shisui let out a long-suffering sigh. “Why must you always argue?”

“I’m not arguing,” Miyuki said sweetly. “Just pointing out that you seem to have a lot of free time.”

“So,” he pressed, “is that a yes to dinner?”

Miyuki crossed her arms, feigning scandal. “The confidence to ask me on a date… you’ve got some nerve.”

He chuckled. “I never called it a date.”

“Oh?” Her smile curved sly, playful. “Then I must’ve made a mistake. You were actually looking down on me, thinking I’m below your standards.”

Shisui opened his mouth, about to deny it, then paused—catching the spark in her eyes. His grin returned, softer this time. “…You’re just messing with me.”

Miyuki smirked, refusing to answer.

Shisui tilted the book back onto the shelf, his grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll swing by again around closing time.”

Before Miyuki could form a reply, he blurred from her sight—gone as quickly as he’d appeared. A gust of displaced air rustled the pages of the nearest books, and she was left blinking at the empty spot where he’d stood.

“Shunshin no Shisui…” she muttered under her breath, rubbing her temples. The moniker wasn’t just gossip, then. He lived up to it.

Leaning back against the counter, Miyuki pressed her hands against her eyes, as if that would help sort the jumble inside her head. She had just opened a door she thought she had locked years ago. A door she had sworn she’d never touch again.

Shisui was easy to be around—dangerously so. Talking with him was like finding an old childhood friend after years apart, and realizing the rhythm of conversation hadn’t changed at all. He laughed like nothing weighed him down, and he called her “Hime” with such casual affection that it made something in her chest tighten.

She should have stayed away. She knew better.

Because she couldn’t save him — not from Obito, not from Danzō, not from the burden that would one day break Itachi.

Miyuki clenched her fists. She should’ve said no, shut down whatever this was before it began.

But why was it so hard?

Every time she tried to be cold, to be sharp enough to cut away the bond forming between them, she faltered. One look at his face, at the warmth that never wavered, at the way he spoke of her as a friend—and she backtracked.

Because pushing Shisui away felt like trying to close the last window in a room full of stale air. And she couldn’t quite do it.

Not yet.

—————-

⸻

The streets were thinning out as lanterns flickered to life along the main road. Miyuki kept her steps measured beside Shisui, her bag tucked neatly against her side. She tried to ignore the prickling at the back of her neck, the subtle weight of unseen eyes.

Civilians passed them by without a glance, too busy with their errands, yet Miyuki’s discomfort lingered. It wasn’t them she worried about.

A pair of Uchiha police officers rounded the corner. Their greetings to Shisui were polite, even friendly, but their eyes flicked toward her—green gaze, white hair, fragile frame—and lingered a moment too long. Some looks held curiosity, some judgment, none warm.

Miyuki pressed her lips together. She wasn’t a ninja, she wasn’t Uchiha. She was other. And though she liked her striking looks, was even proud of them at times, there were moments like this when the attention soured. Not all eyes carried kindness.

Back in her old life, she had perfected a look for these moments—her “New York face.” The one that said I don’t have time for you. I don’t see you. You don’t exist. She slipped it on now, chin tilted, gaze ahead. To the passersby, she might as well have been walking alone.

Shisui, for his part, walked with effortless ease, as though no eyes in the world could disturb him. If he noticed the scrutiny, he didn’t show it. His hands folded loosely behind his head, his steps casual, his silence unbothered.

When they finally sat down at Ichiraku, Miyuki let herself exhale, the savory smell of broth and grilled pork easing some of her tension.

“The pork here is the best,” she said, scanning the menu though she already knew what she wanted.

“Good,” Shisui replied smoothly. “I’ll get the beef then. Balance.”

Miyuki gave him a sidelong look, lips twitching. “Balance? That’s your reasoning?”

“Of course,” he said, as though it were obvious. “What if the universe tips over because everyone only eats pork? Someone has to think responsibly.”

“Ah, the great Shunshin Shisui, hero of balance.” Miyuki leaned her chin into her palm. “Konoha sleeps soundly thanks to your noble sacrifice.”

He smirked, pleased with himself. “Exactly. Finally, someone appreciates me.”

She rolled her eyes, hiding the way her mouth wanted to curve. To cover it, she asked curiously, “Did Mikoto-san ever… say anything about my book?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard. For once, Shisui didn’t have a clever reply at the ready. “I see her read that manuscript sometimes,” he admitted. “She even bought a copy herself when it was published.” His gaze softened as he added, “If you’d like, I could ask if she wants to see you again.”

Miyuki stilled, chopsticks tapping against her bowl. Her mind tugged unwillingly to the future—Mikoto, gentle and kind, lying lifeless in her own home. By the hands of her eldest son.

It was better she didn’t. Better she left things as they were.

“If she wanted to see me again,” Miyuki said slowly, voice even, “she would have.”

The words slipped out, heavier than she meant them.

Shisui tilted his head. “She’s the clan matriarch, you know. She’s raising Sasuke, handling half the clan’s politics, being Fugaku-sama’s better half… she probably just doesn’t have the time.”

Miyuki blinked at him.

“And,” he continued innocently, “I’ve seen all your fairy tale books lined up at their home. Even Aya. Looked well-read to me.”

Her lips parted. A memory of that one afternoon long ago came back—Mikoto smiling as Mebuki tries to tame her spoilt daughters words. A vow she had declared boldly then: that she’d be renowned one day. Aya hadn’t been the success she hoped, but the fairy tales… perhaps they had reached farther than she thought.

“…I’ll think about it,” she said finally, her tone lighter.

“Good,” Shisui said, leaning back with a grin. “I’ll tell her to clear her schedule for your royal visit.”

Miyuki flicked her chopsticks at him. “Don’t you dare.”

“You wound me,” he countered, hand over his heart. “I was going to introduce you as Yuki Hime, patron saint of the written word.”

“Patron saint of patience, more like, for putting up with you.”

Shisui chuckled, unfazed. “See? You’re good at titles. You should write about me next. A whole book.”

“Please,” Miyuki scoffed. “The tragedy of Shisui: eaten alive by his own ego. A bestseller, I’m sure.”

He grinned, leaning closer. “Only if you promise a happy ending.”

She met his eyes, fighting the way warmth tugged at her chest. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said with a wink, “you’re still here.”

Her cheeks burned, but she looked away quickly, focusing on her food. “Only because the pork is good.”

“Sure,” he murmured, smug. “Keep telling yourself that.”

She told herself it was just dinner. Just one evening. But Shisui Uchiha had a way of turning one into many.

—————-

⸻

A year passed in the rhythm of quiet routines and unexpected visits.

The bookstore had become Miyuki’s sanctuary, the smell of ink and paper wrapping her like a shield against the world she refused to touch. But no shield was proof against Shisui Uchiha.

He always appeared without warning—sometimes materializing in the middle of an aisle, other times leaning casually against the counter as though he had been there all along.

“Do you have to ambush me every time?” she would scold.

“Yes,” he would reply easily, and the conversation would always end with him dragging her out for dinner.

Miyuki never once offered to pay, convinced he would grow tired of footing the bill. But he never did. Somewhere along the line, she realized he never would. The Uchiha weren’t just respected—they were wealthy. Rich enough that her guilty conscience was probably the only thing suffering.

Sometimes, Shisui brought Itachi along. The younger boy was quiet, reserved, but always polite. He never admitted outright to reading her books, but every so often he slipped a question into their conversations.

“Kocho-san,” he’d say carefully, “why did Aya choose to leave instead of fight?” Or, “In The Sparrow’s Lantern, was the fox meant to represent loyalty or trickery?”

Miyuki would answer as vaguely as she pleased, watching the sharp glint of curiosity in his dark eyes. For all his silence, he wasn’t criminal. He was still a boy. Still someone’s son, someone’s brother. Still alive in a way that hurt to witness.

Neither Shisui nor Itachi ever spoke about missions, or the clan. Miyuki never asked. Staying in that lane kept her safe, her health steady.

Not that everyone respected her “lane.”

Once, Ayako caught sight of Shisui waiting outside the bookstore for Miyuki and snorted loudly enough to draw half the street’s attention.

“Your boyfriend’s here,” Ayako teased.

The look on Miyuki’s face had been murderous. Her reply was sharp, immediate, scathing enough to make the retired kunoichi burst into laughter. Shisui, unhelpfully, only looked amused.

But the one who loved him most was Sakura.

Shy with strangers, Sakura usually clung to Miyuki’s skirts when introduced to anyone new. But with Shisui, she had practically launched herself into his arms by the second meeting.

Now she called him “Nii-san” without hesitation, tugging on his hand and demanding he play with her whenever he visited.

“Maybe she’s just weak genes against Uchiha looks,” Miyuki muttered once, watching her sister chatter happily to him. Given her future, she shouldn’t be surprised.

Mebuki rolled her eyes. “Or maybe it’s because you’ve spoiled her rotten. Honestly, you coddle her too much.”

Miyuki only sniffed, scooping Sakura up. “She’s too cute not to coddle.”

The teasing didn’t stop there.

One evening at dinner, Sakura was perched on Shisui’s lap, proudly announcing to anyone who would listen, “He’s my brother!”

“Oh?” Mebuki said slyly, setting down her chopsticks. “Then maybe one day he’ll marry into the family. In which case—Shisui-kun, you can just call me Mom.”

Shisui nearly choked.

Miyuki slapped her forehead. “Mom!”

Mebuki only smiled sweetly, while Sakura clapped her hands in glee, utterly oblivious to Shisui’s mortification.

Miyuki tried to look annoyed, but something in her chest—warm, quiet, dangerous—stirred anyway.

She didn’t realize she’d already begun writing his eulogy in her heart.

Chapter Text

The store was unusually quiet that afternoon, sunlight spilling through the windows and catching on the spines of books like lines of gold. Miyuki was arranging a stack of storybooks when she caught the faint murmur of voices—two elderly women whispering near the corner shelf.

They weren’t subtle.

“…Uchiha boy… always here…” one tsked.

“…holding hands, shameless really… what will her poor mother do if he leaves her…” the other replied.

Miyuki sighed, pressing her lips together. It was becoming a pattern—her name and Shisui’s, tangled in the mouths of gossips like some tragic romance. A civilian girl, frail and ordinary. An elite Uchiha shinobi, bright and untouchable. Two worlds that should never have crossed.

Except… they had.

She and Shisui were friends. Just friends. She repeated it to herself like a prayer. But then there were the things she couldn’t ignore: how he always found her after missions, his easy presence in her shop, the dinners he insisted on paying for, the way his hand had somehow become accustomed to holding hers.

And that—more than anything—was dangerous.

In her old life, she might have brushed it off as harmless. But here, in a village where marriages were arranged before girls were grown and public affection was scandalous, it meant something. Too much.

She’d wanted to say something—ten months ago, then six, then three, then just last week. But each time the words died in her throat. Not because she feared rejection, but because she feared the opposite.

What if she was right? What if Shisui did have feelings for her?

Then their friendship would unravel. And worse, what could she possibly do with that knowledge? Enter into something with him? Knowing—always knowing—that he was destined to die before he even reached twenty?

It would be cruel. A lie.

Miyuki’s chest ached as she stacked another book, her green eyes dull with the weight of it. She should have cut their bond at the root before it had a chance to grow into this tangled, complicated thing. Instead, she had let it bloom—selfishly, recklessly—because she liked his company. Because he made her laugh. Because for once, someone saw her as more than her frailty.

The bell above the shop door chimed, and Miyuki stiffened before she even turned her head. She knew that step—light, confident, and never in a hurry.

“Afternoon,” Shisui greeted, easy as ever, leaning against the doorway like he had nowhere else in the world to be.

Miyuki’s heart gave an unhelpful flutter. Now, she told herself. She would say it now. Before things slipped further things became more messy.

She drew in a breath, steadying her voice—only to catch the two old women still browsing in the corner, their eyes flicking between her and Shisui like cats watching prey. A knot formed in her throat. She couldn’t bring it up here. Not with ears listening, waiting to spin her words into something they weren’t.

Shisui’s dark gaze swept over her, sharp but unreadable. He caught the hesitation—he always did. His eyes flicked once to the gossiping women, then back to Miyuki, his mouth curving in the faintest smirk.

“Busy day?” he asked casually, but there was an edge of understanding beneath it. He wasn’t calling her out—he was giving her an escape.

Miyuki nodded, lips pressed. “…Something like that.”

Shisui shifted his weight and, with deliberate ease, changed the subject. “I was wondering…” His tone lightened, like he’d only just thought of it. “Would you come watch me train sometime? It’s not exactly dinner, but maybe you’ll see why I’m always starving after.”

Miyuki blinked at him. Of all the things she’d braced herself for, that wasn’t it. A quiet laugh escaped her before she could stop it. “What, so I can take notes? ‘Shisui of the Body Flicker, known for vanishing into thin air and emptying bowls of ramen in record time.’”

His grin broke wide, brilliant and unguarded, and it hit her like a kunai to the chest. Her heart skipped a beat, traitorous and warm, and for the first time she let herself feel it—just a flicker of what she was so desperate to deny.

Oh no.

She might have feelings for him.

But reality didn’t change. Shisui would die young. She couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t warn him.

And she couldn’t let this… whatever it was becoming… mean something.

⸻

Miyuki sat with her notebook propped open in front of her, its pages still as blank as they had been for the last hour. Across the training ground, Shisui moved through katas with the same effortless grace that made half the clan fawn over him. It irritated her. Everything about him irritated her—his talent, his smile, the ease with which he carried himself as though the weight of the world couldn’t touch him.

Her pen hovered uselessly above the page. She forced her eyes down, not on the ripple of his muscles under his shirt, not on the way the sunlight caught in his hair when he pivoted. Definitely not that.

“Writer’s block?”

She flinched at his voice, pen nearly slipping from her fingers. He’d come up behind her without a sound. Typical.

“I’m not blocked,” she muttered, keeping her gaze on the empty page. “I’m just… distracted.”

Shisui’s laugh was light, easy. “By someone, maybe?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Her tone was sharp, dismissive, but he only grinned.

“Funny,” he said, crouching down beside her. “Because it kind of looks like you’re staring at me when you should be writing.”

Miyuki turned her face toward him, eyes cool, mouth twisted. “If anything, you’re the least inspiring sight I’ve ever had. I’d get more material watching paint dry.”

Instead of bristling, Shisui chuckled. That maddening, breezy chuckle. “Harsh as always Hime.”

That was the problem. Most people flinched when she cut with her words; Shisui parried them without effort, as though her sharpness only made him more amused. His presence was dangerously easy, a current she could slip into if she wasn’t careful.

He leaned in, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. The movement was gentle, thoughtless, but it made her breath catch. Miyuki’s eyes followed his hand, then locked on his face with a flat stare meant to hide the storm rising inside her.

“What are you doing, Shisui?” Her voice was low, unsteady despite her best efforts. “What is this?”

He hesitated, studying her. “What do you think it is?”

“You know,” she said bluntly, almost accusing.

His hand fell back, raking through his hair. “Fine. I like you. More than like you. I—” He exhaled, almost laughing at his own lack of composure. “I really like you, Miyuki.”

Her chest tightened. Part of her wanted to be relieved, elated even. But all she felt was the familiar clamp of fear and guilt. He was going to die. She knew it. And letting herself fall into this would only make it worse.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “This… can’t happen.”

Shisui frowned. “Can’t? What does that even mean?”

“It means exactly what I said.” She stood abruptly, notebook tucked against her chest like a shield. “You won’t understand.”

“Then make me understand,” he pressed, following her. “You can’t just shut me out and expect me to accept it.”

She bit down hard, her words snapping like a whip. “Fine. I hate you. We should stop being friends.”

For the first time, his smile slipped. But instead of retreating, his voice softened. “If that’s really how you feel, look me in the eye and say it. You owe me that much.”

Her throat worked. She forced herself to meet his gaze, but her walls crumbled the second she saw his face—earnest, unguarded, waiting. Tears stung her eyes before she could stop them.

“I—” Her voice broke. She shook her head violently. “You don’t get it, Shisui. You’ll die. You’ll die, and—”

The words strangled in her throat as if some unseen hand had tightened around it. Her vision swam, the courtyard tilting, darkening. She staggered, clutching at nothing, her breath coming short.

“Miyuki!” Shisui’s voice was alarmed, reaching for her as her world narrowed to black, as though the story itself had tightened a noose around her neck for daring to speak the truth.

And then she collapsed.

————

The hospital room was quiet, sterile, too quiet. Sunlight filtered through the blinds in harsh slats, painting stripes across the pale sheets. Miyuki’s body felt heavy, almost unresponsive, as if gravity itself had decided she wasn’t worth lifting. Her chest ached—not just physically, but in a way that had nothing to do with her sickness.

Shisui sat at her bedside, dark eyes calm, unreadable. She wanted to hate him for how natural he was here, for how easy he made her feel in a world that had never been kind to frailty. But she didn’t. Not yet.

“Two years,” he said lightly, voice casual. “Your streak without episodes… ended.”

She pressed her lips together, tasting bitterness. Memories of fainting spells and self-loathing clawed up, sharp and unwelcome. But what struck her harder was how much she wanted to hide from him.

“The doctor says it’s stress,” Shisui continued. “You need rest.” He rose as if to leave, giving her the choice to push him away.

But she couldn’t.

“Shisui… wait,” she rasped. Her voice cracked, brittle as glass. “Why… why would you like me?”

He stopped, gaze steady, patient. “Like you? You mean… after everything?”

She swallowed hard, trying to organize her thoughts, to find words that wouldn’t betray her secret. “I’m not… like you. I’m fragile, weak. My body… my life… it could end any day. Loving me—” She faltered, a sudden wave of nausea twisting her stomach. She pressed her hands to her mouth, fighting it back. “…would be cruel.”

Shisui leaned forward slightly, but didn’t move too close. “Miyuki,” he said quietly, voice like steel softened with velvet. “Fragile doesn’t mean worthless. Weak doesn’t mean unworthy. I don’t care about any of that.”

Her eyes flitted away, landing on the blinds, on the faint pattern of sunlight on the floor. She tried to tell him, tried to warn him, but the words died in her throat. A stabbing pain pressed at her temples, a flash of nausea, and her thoughts fractured.

She shook her head violently. “You don’t… you don’t understand! If we—if I—” her voice faltered, head spinning. “…I can’t—”

Shisui’s dark gaze softened but didn’t leave her. “Try me,” he said. “You can’t just shut me out and expect me to accept it.”

Her hands gripped the sheet. “It’s not that simple! You… you might—” A sudden vertigo stole her words, forcing her to close her eyes. When she opened them, his hand was on hers, grounding her. She wanted to tell him everything—about what she knew—but the words, like fragile wings, could not fly.

“I… I can’t…” she whispered, voice trembling. Her chest ached with the weight of unspoken fears, the unbearable knowledge she couldn’t share. “I’m… I’m terrified.”

“Of me?” he asked quietly, patient.

She shook her head, tears pricking her eyes. “Of… everything. Losing you. Losing myself. Letting this—” she gestured weakly at her own frail form “—mean something… because it will hurt. It will hurt so much.”

Shisui’s thumb brushed the back of her hand. “And yet here you are, trembling, looking at me. Even scared, even weak, you’re still choosing to care. Don’t tell me that doesn’t matter. Don’t tell me your fear can outweigh what’s real, right now.”

Her lips quivered. She wanted to argue, to pull away, to protect him from the shadow of her knowledge. But he didn’t flinch. He stayed, steady, unwavering.

“I—” she started, vision swimming, head pounding. “…I shouldn’t… I can’t…”

He leaned closer, his voice low, intimate. “Miyuki. You don’t get to decide what I feel, or what we have. Not with excuses, not with fear. I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

The words were simple, but they hammered at her chest. She bit her lip, forcing herself to meet his gaze, and in that moment she saw the truth she had been denying for months: he would wait. He would fight. And she… she had no choice but to fall.

“I… I love you,” she whispered finally, voice barely audible, trembling with the weight of everything she had tried to hide.

Shisui’s eyes softened, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “About time,” he murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I was starting to think you’d never admit it.”

Her chest tightened, fear and guilt still lingering, but a warmth bloomed in its place. She closed her eyes, letting herself feel it, letting herself hope. Even if the world outside their fragile bubble would never be kind, even if the shadows of destiny loomed, she chose him.

For once, she let herself surrender.

Chapter Text

It had only been a week since that episode, and—as if he had the worst timing in the world—Shisui was already sent back out on the field. A long mission, that’s all he told her. No details, no certainty of return. Typical.

He said goodbye without much ceremony. For a fleeting moment, Miyuki thought he might lean in, press a kiss against her lips—only to catch her glare, the kind that said she would bite him before she’d let him indulge in such dramatics. He wisely thought better of it.

She didn’t want a goodbye kiss anyway. She hated goodbyes.

Instead, Shisui simply squeezed her hand, firm, steady, as if that single touch could say everything he knew she wouldn’t let him voice.

Her discharge from the hospital had been equally devoid of celebration. Just skeptical looks from the nurses—because apparently word had spread that she’d once tried to smother Shisui with a pillow after he embarrassed her. (She still thought it had been a justified response.)

So she told her parents she was fine. Told Ayako she was fine. Played at normalcy with the kind of brittle grace only she could muster—while quietly pretending she wasn’t, in fact, dating Shisui Uchiha.

—————

⸻

The bell above the bookstore door chimed, and Miyuki looked up from the ledger she had been pretending to update. In truth, she’d been people-watching between her half-scribbled notes on the scrap of paper tucked inside her sleeve. Words always came to her in the quiet moments of the shop—when the smell of ink and paper wrapped around her like armor.

That armor cracked when she saw him.

Itachi.

Her pen nearly slipped from her fingers. She rarely ever saw him without Shisui; the two seemed stitched together. And if Itachi was here, without Shisui, then—

“Miyuki-san.” His voice was calm, formal, polite.

She forced her smirk into place, tapping the pen against the counter like she owned the shop. “Itachi-chan. Shouldn’t you be at the training grounds, brooding under a tree? Or is this your rebellion—buying books without supervision?”

The suffix was deliberate, barbed. He’d just made chūnin, the prodigy son of the Uchiha clan head, already spoken of with reverence. But Miyuki couldn’t resist pricking the bubble.

Itachi, of course, didn’t flinch. His dark eyes rested on her with quiet steadiness, as if he’d long since decided such things weren’t worth reacting to. “I came to tell you something,” he said gently. “Shisui was injured during the last mission.”

Her heart stuttered. Her grip tightened on the pen until her knuckles ached. “Hn. He’s always throwing himself headfirst into trouble,” she said, voice sharp, too quick. “Maybe this will finally teach him not to be so smug.”

But the slight tremor in her tone betrayed her, and she knew Itachi heard it.

“He’ll be fine,” he reassured her, his voice as soft as the rustle of a turned page. “You don’t need to leave your work. He asked me to tell you.”

Her chest tightened further. He asked you? The thought thudded against her ribs, far too revealing, so she scoffed instead. “Of course he did. Sending his errand boy while he lounges around. Typical.”

This time, she caught it—the faintest twitch at the corner of Itachi’s mouth, quickly smoothed away.

“He trusts you’ll understand,” Itachi said.

Miyuki rolled her eyes, setting down her pen with exaggerated delicacy. “Understand? I’d sooner rewrite the entire shinobi code than try to understand Shisui Uchiha. But you’re both impossible, so maybe it’s genetic.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the steady tick of the shop clock. Then, Itachi said quietly, “He speaks well of you.”

Her breath hitched, though she masked it with an arched brow. “He’d better. I’ve endured enough of his idiocy to earn that much.”

Itachi inclined his head.

“Take care,” he said quietly, before turning to leave.

Miyuki watched him go, the smirk slipping once the door chimed shut behind him. She hated how easily the Uchiha—first Shisui, now Itachi—saw through her dismissive airs. Hated, too, the strange warmth curling in her chest.

—————-

Miyuki slipped into the hospital room, the faint antiseptic sting in the air tugging at memories she’d rather bury. For once, though, she wasn’t the one in the bed.

Shisui’s smile greeted her before his words did, faint but genuine. “Looks like the roles are reversed.”

She crossed her arms, leaning on the doorframe like she was above worrying. “What happened?”

He waved it off with that maddening ease of his. “Nothing serious. Just chakra exhaustion.”

“Mm. Overdoing it being an idiot again, I assume?” she fired back, striding to his bedside.

He chuckled, a spark dancing in his dark eyes. “You should be kind to me. I only pushed myself because I wanted to see you so badly. The faster I finished, the faster I could get back.”

Her lips twitched. “Oh, so it’s my fault now?”

“If the shoe fits.” His grin widened. “You wouldn’t even kiss me goodbye before I left.”

Her mouth went dry, but she covered it with a scoff. “I hate goodbyes. And what—our first kiss was supposed to be one? How tragically poetic of you.”

He laughed, the sound warm and annoyingly infectious. “Then how are you with hellos?”

Her lips twitched despite herself. Hopeless. He’s absolutely hopeless.

Before she could overthink it—before she could list the reasons it was doomed, the clan politics, the future she had no right to—she leaned in. Her palms pressed to either side of his head on the pillow, grounding herself. His hands slid instinctively to her waist, steadying her.

The kiss was deep, scolding and tender all at once. She poured relief into it, and a warning too—don’t scare me like that again. Don’t you dare leave me.

When she finally pulled back, breathless, he didn’t let her go. His forehead rested against hers, his lips brushing close as he murmured, “This is real.”

Her heart stuttered, and she shoved lightly at his shoulder. “You’re being cheesy.”

But then he gave her that look—the one that always stole the air from her lungs, the one that made her feel like she was something rare and irreplaceable. His smile softened, reverent. “There’s always something to say with you, Hime.”

Her mouth betrayed her before her mind could stop it. “Better to have something to say than nothing at all.”

His brows arched knowingly, his tone dipping lower, intimate. “Even if it sounds like you’re trying to start a fight?”

She shrugged and slipped closer into the bed, allowing his arms to pull her tighter. “You confessed first. That’s on you. Now you just have to live with it.”

Shisui chuckled, brushing his nose against her temple. “Hn. Worth it. Even if ninety percent of what comes out of your mouth is an insult.”

“And the other ten percent?”

He smirked, pressing a lingering kiss to her hair. “The part that tells me you actually care.”

Miyuki tried to pull back, but Shisui’s arms tightened just slightly, enough to make her pause. He tilted his head, grin lazy, voice teasing.

“So… do I get another one?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Another what?”

He gave her the most innocent look she’d ever seen, which immediately meant trouble. “Kiss. You know, for good measure. Doctor’s orders.”

She snorted. “You’re impossible. And delusional if you think I’m falling for that.”

“Delusional?” he echoed, mock-offended. “I almost died out there, Miyuki.”

“You didn’t ‘almost die,’ you idiot. You overdid it.” She tapped his forehead with a finger. “You’re fine.”

He caught her hand, holding it against his chest. “Fine now, thanks to you. But I feel like a proper recovery requires… reinforcement.” His smirk returned. “I’d say one kiss for every time you’ve insulted me in the past month sounds fair.”

Her mouth fell open. “That’s robbery. I’d be kissing you into next year.”

“Exactly.” His grin widened, utterly shameless.

She shoved at his shoulder, though her cheeks betrayed her with heat. “You’re unbelievable.”

He leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “But you don’t hate the idea.”

Her pulse stuttered, and for one terrifying second she didn’t have a comeback. She covered it with a scoff. “You’re really hopeless.”

“Mm. Maybe.” He tilted his head, his nose brushing hers. “But you’d miss it if I stopped trying.”

Her breath caught.

Finally, she sighed, exasperated and fond all at once. “One more. Just one.”

Before she could regret it, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his again—quicker, but no less real. When she tried to pull back this time, his grin followed her, like he’d won something.

“See? Progress,” he murmured. “At this rate, I’ll have you saying you love me every other day.”

She glared, mortified. “Don’t push your luck.”

He only laughed, tucking her closer, utterly content.

—————————

⸻

The night air was crisp, cicadas humming lazily in the background as Miyuki walked home. Her steps were unhurried, but her mind was anything but calm. She still saw it—Shisui’s wide-eyed look of utter betrayal when the medic-nin caught him half out the window, bandages and all, and proceeded to scold him like an unruly child. She had nearly doubled over laughing as she waved goodbye, leaving him stranded there, cornered.

The memory made her smile now, warmth blooming in her chest. Shisui was ridiculous. Infuriating. Impossible. And she liked him more than she should.

Her smile faltered.

Every time she let herself relax around him, every time she gave in to his easy banter and soft looks, that knowledge weighed heavier: he wasn’t meant to live. The timeline didn’t bend just because she wished it would. He would die at sixteen, seventeen at best—snuffed out before his life truly began. She knew it, down to the ache in her bones.

So what was she doing, letting him kiss her, letting him close enough to see her walls crack?

Miyuki hugged her arms to herself, head tilted to the stars above. She wanted it. That was the truth. She wanted to give in, to stop fighting and let herself fall into him completely, because being around Shisui felt like breathing after years underwater. He made her laugh, made her angry, made her alive in ways she hadn’t let herself feel for so long.

But wanting was dangerous.

Because one day, she would lose him. Whether she confessed all of it or not, whether she let him hold her tighter or pushed him away—his death would come, and she would be left with the pieces.

Her heart ached with the paradox. To take what time she could have with him, or to cut it short before it bloomed into something unbearable.

She sighed heavily, rubbing at her temples. “You’re such an idiot, Shisui,” she muttered to herself, though her voice trembled. “And I’m worse for letting you matter this much.”

The lamps of the street flickered as she reached home, her steps heavy. Tonight, she knew sleep wouldn’t come easily.