Konohagakure
The streets of Konoha blurred as Rei ran, the night air slicing past her cheeks. Her sandals slapped against the stone path, uneven and too fast, but she didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Not after the words she'd just thrown at Takeshi—sharp, reckless, unforgivable.
"I don't need you watching over me!"
"You don't know what it's been like!"
"You were asleep!"
The words echoed in her head, louder than the pounding of her heart.
She had meant to go to her room. She had meant to slam the door, to stew in silence, to feel righteous in her anger. But the second she stormed outside, something in her buckled—shame, maybe. Guilt. Whatever it was, it drove her legs faster than her thoughts could keep up.
The village was quiet. The warmth of evening had long since slipped away, leaving only the distant hum of lanterns and the occasional patrol on the rooftops. A cat darted across her path near the abandoned flower stall, and she barely registered it.
Her breath hitched, uneven. Her lungs were tight, her throat raw. But still, she kept going, until the houses gave way to trees and the trees gave way to silence.
When she finally stopped, she realized where her feet had taken her.
The memorial stone stood tall in the moonlight, its surface slick with dew, names carved with quiet reverence. Her mother's was near the bottom—Aiko Arakawa. Simple, elegant, final.
Rei stood there for a long moment, the wind tugging at her hair, brushing the red streak across her cheek.
And then she dropped to her knees.
She didn't cry. Not at first. She just stared at the name, the cold stillness of it. Her hands pressed into her thighs, nails digging into the fabric. Her shoulders trembled, but she wouldn't let herself fall apart—not yet.
"I didn't mean to say that to him," she whispered. Her voice cracked on the last word. "I didn't... I didn't mean any of it."
The words didn't bounce back. The stone didn't answer.
But someone else did.
"...Rei?"
She froze.
The name—spoken in that familiar, hesitant voice—cut through the stillness like a kunai across silk. For a moment, she thought she was imagining it. A ghost, maybe. Or some cruel trick of memory.
But then she turned.
And there he was.
Kakashi stood a few paces away, half-shadowed beneath the trees. His posture was stiff, uncertain—like he hadn't meant to interrupt, like he almost wished he hadn't spoken. The fading moonlight silvered the tips of his hair, and his mask.
It was wide with surprise. And something else.
Recognition.
He hadn't expected her. That much was obvious.
Rei didn't say anything. She couldn't.
"...I didn't know you came here," Kakashi said finally, his voice low, almost reverent.
Rei turned back to the stone, swallowing hard. "I don't." Her voice was hoarse, uneven. "Not really."
Kakashi moved a little closer, just enough to see her fully. Her posture was wrong. Rei always stood tall, always moved with that confident sharpness like she was daring the world to try her. But now, her shoulders were hunched, her arms limp at her sides. Her head bowed slightly like the name carved in stone before her had pulled her down like a weight.
He stepped closer still, but not too close. "I come here sometimes," he murmured. "To see her."
Rei glanced at him. Her brow furrowed.
Kakashi motioned slightly with his chin, toward the far side of the memorial. "My mother's name is here too."
She blinked, startled. "I thought..."
"You thought it was just my father that fought for the village."
He didn't say it with bitterness. Just quiet fact.
Rei looked away. "I didn't know."
"No one really talks about her. Not even him."
Silence stretched between them. Long. Quiet.
Then Kakashi said, "I come here when I don't know what else to do. When everything else is... too loud."
Rei flinched at how much that mirrored what she'd felt.
She forced a smirk onto her lips. "Funny. I come when everything's too quiet."
He didn't laugh, but his eye softened.
"You want to be alone?" he asked.
"Yes," Rei said. Then added, after a beat, "No."
Kakashi hesitated, then stepped beside her, just far enough to not crowd her but close enough she'd know she wasn't alone. They stood in silence, both staring at the stone like it might offer answers if they waited long enough.
"I didn't mean for you to see me like this," Rei said suddenly. Her voice cracked at the edges, like a sheet of glass under strain. "I came here to... I don't know. Get a grip, maybe. But everything's just—"
She broke off, her throat catching.
"You don't have to explain anything," Kakashi said gently.
She laughed then—short, hollow. "That's the thing. I want to. I want someone to get it. But when I try, it's like the words come out wrong. I tried with Takeshi. And now he hates me."
"He doesn't hate you," Kakashi said quietly.
"You weren't there," she snapped, turning on him suddenly. "You didn't see his face when I told him the truth. About Orochimaru. About what I've been doing. He looked at me like I was some stranger who broke into his house and replaced his sister."
Kakashi didn't flinch.
"And maybe he's right," she added bitterly. "Maybe I am someone else now."
She turned away from him, her fists clenching at her sides. "I've spent years trying to protect him. Pushing myself past every limit, taking every mission, breaking every rule, and for what? So he can wake up and judge me like everyone else does?"
Her voice cracked, and she pressed a hand to her face, shaking slightly.
"I tried so hard, Kakashi," she whispered. "I tried to be strong. For him. For the village. For me. But it's never enough. No matter how hard I fight, I'm always too much or not enough. They watch me like I'm dangerous. Like I'm going to lose control. Like I already have."
A beat.
"Maybe I have."
Kakashi didn't move.
She wiped her eyes roughly. "You think I'm reckless too. You always have."
"...Yeah," he admitted. "I do."
Rei turned to him sharply, wounded.
"But," he added, stepping closer, his voice steady, "I've also seen you carry things no one else could. I've seen you throw yourself into battle without hesitation—not because you're careless, but because you care more than anyone else I know."
Her lip trembled.
"You're scared," he said softly. "And angry. And exhausted. But that doesn't make you wrong. That makes you human."
She broke.
The sob ripped from her like something dying. She dropped to her knees, her hands gripping the edge of the memorial stone, her forehead pressing against the name carved there.
Her mother's name.
Kakashi knelt beside her without a word.
She wept silently. Harsh, uneven gasps of breath that she tried and failed to hold back.
"I don't know what I'm doing anymore," she whispered. "I don't know who I am."
"You're Rei," he said. "And that's enough."
She turned slightly, her face streaked with tears, and leaned into him—just barely.
He let her.
And for the first time in a long time, neither of them felt alone.
The next morning the house was quiet.
That unnatural kind of silence that followed a storm—not thunder, not rain—but the kind that tears through the heart in the dead of night, leaving behind something hollow and echoing.
Rei stirred beneath the blanket, curled on her side in the same clothes she'd worn the day before. Her room was still bathed in faint, early light, the sun barely cresting the rooftops. She hadn't pulled the curtains shut properly, and now a thin beam of gold cut across the floor, warm but unwanted.
Her limbs were heavy. Her head ached dully behind her eyes. Something inside her had cracked wide open at the memorial stone, and whatever spilled out hadn't gone back in right.
She hadn't meant to stay out that long. She hadn't meant to fall apart.
And she certainly hadn't meant for him to be the one to see it.
But he had. And he hadn't walked away.
Kakashi. Still as frustrating and cold as ever—but for once, he hadn't offered judgment. Just presence. And somehow, that had been worse than anything he could've said.
A noise broke the silence—a dull, rhythmic thump carried faintly through the open window. Rei blinked, groggy, the sound tugging her halfway out of sleep. Another thud followed, deliberate and slow. Not urgent. Not dangerous.
Training.
She sat up, rubbed her eyes, and stepped barefoot to the window. Parting the curtain with one hand, she peered down into the backyard.
Takeshi.
He was out there, alone, the wooden practice sword clutched in his still-healing hands. His body moved with caution rather than grace—each swing of the bokken was measured, slow, his legs stiff, his breath short. But he was moving. Sweat dampened the back of his shirt despite the morning chill. His expression was tight, determined.
Rei's fingers tightened on the windowsill.
She hadn't expected him to be up, much less out there, so soon after their fight. After everything she'd said. After the way she'd run. The guilt hit her like a wave—hot, prickling behind her eyes—but she blinked it back.
She let the curtain fall.
Downstairs, she moved on instinct. She brewed tea but didn't drink it. Let the cup sit on the counter and watched the steam fade. Every corner of the house felt sharper than usual. Colder. Takeshi's presence, once something that should have brought comfort, now made every wall feel closer.
She couldn't face him. Not yet.
Not after what she'd said. Not after how she'd left.
The silence pressed down harder, filling the space between breath and thought. And then, without really thinking, Rei grabbed her jacket off the hook by the door. She didn't brush her hair. Didn't glance in the mirror.
She walked out.
The streets were still quiet this early in the day, though Konoha never truly slept. Vendors were setting up stalls, shopkeepers hanging signs. A pair of Genin zipped past her on the rooftops overhead, shouting to one another about some dumb race.
She kept her head down and didn't stop until she reached the vine-covered building she'd been to dozens of times. Her fist knocked three times against the door before her mind caught up with her feet.
It creaked open a few seconds later.
Anko blinked blearily at her through the narrow gap, hair mussed and sticking up in several directions, one eye squinting with the unmistakable look of someone who hadn't had her morning sugar yet.
"Rei?"
"Yeah."
A pause.
"You look like you just punched a ghost."
Rei shrugged. "Kind of did."
Anko tilted her head, yawning as she scratched the back of her neck. "You gonna tell me about it? Or am I supposed to guess while I fry eggs?"
"I was kinda hoping you'd tell me what to do without making me say anything."
"Fat chance," Anko muttered, swinging the door open wider. "Get in here."
The moment Rei stepped inside, the warmth of the place hit her like a wave. Real warmth—not just heat. It smelled like cinnamon and sweet bean paste, like herbs drying on hooks, like old wood and newer laughter. A radio crackled softly in the background, half-tuned to some lazy Enka song.
She hadn't realized how much she missed this.
Anko didn't push her. Not right away. She handed her a chipped mug and gestured to the kitchen table without a word.
Rei sat. The chair squeaked beneath her, but she didn't move. She just held the mug in both hands, staring into the steam rising gently from the tea.
And for the first time in days, she felt like she could breathe.
The air in Anko's living room was warm with the scent of something toasted, probably leftover from breakfast. The low hum of cicadas droned just beyond the window screen, a lazy rhythm that contrasted sharply with the unrest curling in Rei's stomach. She sat on the edge of the couch, posture stiff, eyes flicking to the window every so often as though it might offer her an escape route. Across from her, Anko lay sprawled upside-down over the armrest, arms dangling toward the floor, a piece of paper twirling between her fingers like she was trying to pretend this wasn't a weird morning.
"So," Anko finally said, voice casual but laced with curiosity, "how's your brother? Still glaring at walls and pretending to be tougher than he is?"
Rei blinked. The question shouldn't have caught her off guard—it was fair, normal even. But the weight of last night still pressed against her like a bruise she hadn't noticed until someone poked it.
"He's... awake," she said slowly. "Training again. Out in the backyard this morning like nothing happened."
Anko flipped herself upright with a grunt, now sitting properly across from Rei. "Already? Doesn't he need, like, a year to recover or something?"
"You'd think." Rei gave a humorless laugh. "But no. He was already stretching and trying to throw kunai this morning. Acting like he hasn't been unconscious for five years."
Anko leaned back against the couch, crossing her arms. "And you just... what? Watched from the window like some ghost?"
Rei's gaze dropped. She didn't answer right away. Instead, she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and clasping her hands tightly together. "I couldn't talk to him. Not after what I said."
Anko studied her in silence, the way Rei's shoulders tensed and her jaw shifted as though she was clenching back every word that wanted out.
"He just wants you back," Anko said gently. "He's probably more confused than anything."
"Yeah, well," Rei muttered, "he'll have to stay confused a little longer."
The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. They'd grown into a kind of quiet understanding over the years. Rei didn't have to explain everything. But eventually, she did speak again—this time, voice low and more hesitant.
"Anko... I need to tell you something."
Anko straightened slightly. "This doesn't sound fun."
"It's not."
Rei rubbed the back of her neck, then sat up straighter, steeling herself.
"I saw Koji and Mayu again."
Anko blinked. "Wait—those two from your mission?"
"They're... Arakawas," Rei said. "Distant cousins. From Iwagakure."
Anko's expression dropped instantly. "You're serious?"
Rei nodded.
Anko's brows knitted. "So they're your family? Like, blood family?"
"Barely. But yeah. They said I reminded them of Raiden."
Anko let out a low whistle, sitting back. "That's not something you just say to someone and walk away."
"They said they want me to come with them." Rei's voice was flat.
"To Iwa?" Anko sat forward again, eyes wide. "Rei, what the hell?! That's... That's insane! You can't just—! That could start a war."
"I didn't say I was going with them," Rei snapped, though her tone wasn't angry. Just tired. "I told them no. I did the right thing. That's why Orochimaru didn't put it in the report."
Anko stared at her for a long moment. "Does the Hokage know?"
"I think Sakumo does," Rei said, rubbing her thumb over her palm absently. "He hasn't said anything directly. But I think he knows."
"Still," Anko murmured, shaking her head, "this is big. Like... way bigger than us big."
Rei exhaled sharply, leaning back on the couch. "I know."
Anko looked at her sideways. "Does your brother know?"
Rei shook her head. "Not exactly. He knows about the Arakawas in Iwa. Just not everything."
There was a pause. Anko bit her bottom lip, visibly struggling with something. Then, without meeting Rei's eyes, she muttered, "Meanwhile I can't even graduate."
Rei blinked. "What?"
Anko bristled instantly, her tone rising defensively. "Nothing. Forget it."
"No, say it."
"I said," Anko muttered, "I'm still stuck at the Academy while you're out getting hunted by bloodline cousins from enemy nations and running A-rank missions with Orochimaru."
Rei stared. "Anko—"
"Don't," Anko said quickly, standing and turning toward the kitchen. "I'm not saying I want what you have. I'm just saying... it's like you're speeding ahead, and the rest of us are still figuring out how to walk."
"You think I want this?" Rei's voice cracked sharper than she expected.
Anko stopped at the counter, her back still turned.
Rei stood too. "You think this is fun for me? That I asked for any of this?"
"No," Anko said quietly. "I just think sometimes... you forget we're still trying to catch up."
Before Rei could say anything else, the front door clicked open. Anko's parents stepped inside, arms full of groceries. Her mother's face lit up the moment she saw Rei.
"Rei-chan!" she called cheerfully. "Look at you! Still tiny but terrifying, I'm sure."
Rei blinked, the warmth in her expression coming automatically. "Hi, Oba-san."
Anko's dad grinned. "You staying for lunch? You'd be doing me a favor. Anko always burns the rice."
"I do not!" Anko shouted from the kitchen, her embarrassment unmistakable.
Rei smiled faintly. "I—" she started, but Anko cut her off.
"She was just leaving."
The words landed flat, not angry, but not warm either. Rei met her eyes, and in that moment, something passed between them—confusion, pride, hurt, fear. But Rei didn't argue.
She nodded slowly and reached for her sandals. "Thanks for having me," she said politely.
Anko's mom looked surprised. "So soon? You sure?"
"Yeah," Rei said quietly, forcing a smile. "I've got a lot to think about."
She didn't look back as she stepped outside. But the closing of the door behind her echoed louder than it should have.
The afternoon air clung to her skin—sun-warmed, slow, and thick with the scent of woodsmoke and crushed summer grass. The village stirred in a lazy rhythm: laundry flapped gently on rooftop lines, voices drifted from open windows, and somewhere a child's laughter echoed off stone walls. The cicadas were just beginning to stir in the trees, a low whine building toward their evening chorus. But for Rei, the world felt distant, like she was watching it through glass—muted, weightless, unreal. Everything moved around her, but none of it seemed to touch her. It was as if her heart had slipped just a little out of sync with the rest of the world.
She shoved her hands into her pockets and walked without purpose, letting her feet take her somewhere—anywhere—that wasn't there. Not the house where tension clung to the walls. Not the memory of Anko's shuttered expression or her parents' awkward warmth. Not the ghost of Takeshi's silence.
She hated that she couldn't even be mad properly.
Hated that she'd said things she didn't mean just to feel like she still had control of something.
Hated that her heart was still hammering, her stomach still twisted, her mind still looping on that one word: "Leave." As if she didn't already feel like she didn't belong.
Rei turned down a narrow street, the one that led away from the main road and toward the edge of the village. The houses grew sparser here, the lights fewer, and the silence thicker. It suited her. She didn't want noise. She didn't want to be seen.
And yet... some part of her did want to be found.
By someone. Anyone. Someone who wouldn't ask questions she couldn't answer. Someone who wouldn't treat her like a puzzle to solve or a threat to be studied.
Someone who would just sit with her in the silence.
Her thoughts were so loud she didn't notice the sound of hurried footsteps rounding the same corner until—
"Oof—!"
Someone slammed into her.
The impact jolted her back a step. A startled gasp escaped her, but she steadied herself before hitting the wall. The person who had crashed into her stumbled too, but immediately straightened, flustered and wide-eyed.
"Rei?! Oh man—I'm so sorry!"
She blinked.
Obito Uchiha stood in front of her, bent at the waist in a clumsy bow, his hand clutching something vaguely crumpled. His face was flushed red, and his mouth kept moving even as he fumbled his words.
"I wasn't—uh, I mean I wasn't looking—well, I was looking—but I didn't think you'd be right here and—ugh, I ruined it, didn't I?!"
She blinked again. "Obito?"
He sheepishly held up what had once been a pristine white blossom, now flattened in his hand. "This was supposed to be... for you."
Rei stared at the flower. It was one of those rare yozakura blossoms—late bloomers that only appeared around this time of year, glowing like silver in the moonlight. Fragile, fleeting, and beautiful. This one had been crushed—creased at the petals and slightly wilted—but still clung to its shape in Obito's hand.
"For me?" she asked, her voice low, not fully believing the words even as they left her mouth.
Obito nodded, his fingers curling protectively around the blossom as if he could will it back to life. "Yeah. I... I picked it on the way over. It looked cool, and I remembered you said once that silver flowers were your favorite. You said they reminded you of the moon."
She had no memory of saying that. Or maybe she did, somewhere in the back of her mind. Maybe on a training day, or when they were younger—before everything got complicated. Back when words like that could come out of her mouth easily.
"I didn't know you remembered stuff like that," she murmured.
Obito's grin turned sheepish. "I remember a lot of things about you. More than you probably want me to."
She flushed at that, heat rising to her face uninvited. She glanced away, suddenly aware of how disheveled she must've looked—dust-smudged clothes from walking the village for hours, hair sticking out where it had slipped from its tie, her sandals worn. And worse than any of that, her eyes still raw from crying the night before.
"I'm a mess," she said, more to herself than to him. "I shouldn't be seen like this."
Obito tilted his head, blinking. "You don't have to look perfect, y'know."
"But I don't want to look like I've been... falling apart," she shot back.
"You're not," he said simply. "You're just surviving."
Rei felt her chest tighten. Why did his words always hit places no one else could reach? There was no judgment in his voice—just something warm, and unguarded. It was both comforting and unbearable.
"You said you were looking for me?" she asked, trying to change the subject and regain her footing.
"Oh—right!" He straightened up quickly, as if remembering the purpose of his mission. "The Uchiha compound is hosting the Yozakura Festival tonight. Lots of families, food, floating lanterns, even some really cheesy poetry. I thought... maybe you'd want to come."
She blinked again, caught completely off guard.
"I mean, you don't have to or anything!" he added quickly. "I just thought it might be... nice. To see you there. Not on a mission. Not being chased by ANBU. Just... y'know, as a person."
Rei stared at him, stunned by the invitation, the sincerity of it—and the way he looked like he was about to combust from nervousness. Obito Uchiha, who'd once tripped into a pond trying to show off a new fire jutsu, was standing in front of her with a crushed flower and a heart far too open.
"I..." Her voice caught, and for a split second, she hated how much she wanted to say yes. Not because of obligation or guilt. But because she wanted to feel like a girl again, even if just for an hour.
"What time?" she asked abruptly, snatching the crushed blossom from his hand and holding it to her chest like it wasn't broken at all.
Obito blinked. "Uh—sunset? Just after, maybe. I can wait at the compound gate."
"I'll be there," she said.
Then, without waiting for another word, Rei turned on her heel and ran—the crushed blossom still clenched tight in her hand.
Obito stood frozen for several seconds after she disappeared, stunned by the whiplash of what had just happened. Then, slowly, a smile broke across his face.
"She said she'll come," he whispered to himself, touching the pocket where the petals had crumbled. "She's actually coming."
And for the first time in a while, hope felt close enough to touch.