Michel listened.
He had no ears. No body. No breath.
But he could still hear the world—its tremors, its voices, the sorrow carried by skin and silence.
He hovered just above her crib, unseen, unheard.
Below him, Hinata lay motionless.
Too still.
Too quiet.
Her breath came in shallow waves, as if even life itself feared to settle inside her.
<<<< o >>>>
"She didn't eat again" came the voice of her mother—gentle, cracked, exhausted.
"I tried to feed her this morning. She just... turned her face."
Michel didn't recognize the woman by name. But her presence shone. Soft and firm. Wounded and resilient.
He turned toward the other voice.
"I called the physicians again," said Hiashi Hyūga. His voice was steady. Calm. Too calm.
"They'll return before nightfall."
There was no rage in him. Only weight.
Michel could see it. Not on his face, but in the outline of his soul.
It sagged under unspoken expectations.
<<<< o >>>>
The days passed like that.
Michel watched them return again and again.
Doctors. Herbalists. Healers trained in both medicine and chakra.
None could explain what ailed the infant girl.
"There's no fever," one said.
"No curse seal," said another.
"Her chakra coils seem... restrained, but not blocked."
"Maybe it's congenital."
"Maybe it's psychological."
"Maybe it's nothing we understand."
Michel wanted to shout.
To tell them:
"You're looking at the wrong place!
You're studying chakra, but this isn't chakra failure. It's soul and body dissonance—her spirit is too vast for her shell."
But he had no voice in their world.
Only the silence of a witness.
<<<< o >>>>
Then came the change.
It was small—barely noticed.
Her breath deepened.
Her skin warmed.
She stirred in her sleep.
Michel had kept the balance intact. The guidance of soul to flesh was holding.
And though he knew it was fragile, a moment's peace was still peace.
He watched her mother cry as she touched her daughter's hand.
"She's warmer today," she whispered. "She moved when I spoke to her."
Hiashi stood beside her. He did not kneel.
But Michel could see the flicker in his soul.
Hope. Careful. Contained. But real.
They left the room, hand in hand.
Michel remained.
And for the first time since his death, he allowed himself to smile.
<<<< o >>>>
That same evening, the grandfather came.
An older Hyūga, white-eyed and sharp-voiced. His face unreadable, his posture iron.
He stood beside the crib without a word for minutes.
Then spoke without lowering his voice.
"She's stabilized," said Hiashi.
"For now," the old man replied.
"She's still weak. Still unresponsive."
"She breathes."
"And she still bears the bloodline. That's the only reason we continue to monitor her."
Michel felt it then.
Cold.
Not chakra. Not threat. Just cold judgment.
A soul that measured worth in what could be extracted.
Michel didn't sense hate in the old man. Only calculation. Cold efficiency disguised as tradition.
"If the branch was strong," the old man murmured, "this would not have happened."
Michel clenched.
He could do nothing—but if he could've struck, that moment would have tempted him.
<<<< o >>>>
Later that night, when the house quieted, Michel heard them again.
Hiashi and his wife.
The mother's voice was hushed, strained from grief and lack of sleep.
"She's stronger now. She'll make it."
There was silence. Then Hiashi spoke.
"We must think ahead."
"What do you mean?"
"If Hinata... cannot become what we need her to be, the clan—"
"She's our daughter."
"I know. I know." His voice broke slightly. Then recovered.
"But we cannot build a future on hope alone."
More silence.
Then:
"I want to try again."
Michel felt her soul tremble.
Her hand reached for her husband's. She gripped it tightly—but he didn't grip back.
Not at first.
<<<< o >>>>
Later, when the house slept, Michel drifted toward the crib.
Hinata was curled up, breathing softly.
Her chakra dim, but flowing.
Her soul—vast, quiet, and warm.
Michel sat beside her—not on a chair, not on the floor. Just near.
"You're stronger than they know," he whispered, though she could not hear.
"They already doubt you."
"Already measure your life by the fear of loss."
"But I see the flame beneath."
"And I will stand by it, little one."
"I will not let it fade."
In that moment, her fingers twitched.
And Michel felt her soul brush his own.
Just for a second. But enough to remember: He was not alone in this world.
A second later, he felt it ripple deeper—an echo, faint but undeniable.
As if the soul of the girl, even in sleep, was beginning to answer back.