The rain hadn't stopped in days.
Not since that night.
It fell in sheets, pounding against broken rooftops, running through cracks in the earth, turning ash and soil into dark streaks that clung to my sandals. The village felt different now muted, hollowed out. Even the air tasted heavier, like the sky itself was grieving.
I walked my assigned patrol route, though it didn't feel like patrolling. It felt like walking through a graveyard with the corpses removed but the grief left behind.
Buildings stood half-collapsed, deep gouges torn through walls and stone. Seals still hissed faintly in some corners—failed defences, shattered barriers. But none of that compared to the faces of the people drifting through the ruins.
Mothers searching for children who would never come home.
Fathers staring at the rubble of what used to be their kitchens.
Old shinobi sitting alone, hands shaking, whispering names I didn't recognize.
Everyone wanted answers, someone to blame, a target for the pain rotting their chests.
And the whispers, the rumours—they all circled back to us.
The Uchiha.
Some muttered that the Sharingan controlled the beast. Others questioned why so many of our clan survived while others didn't.
The village council restricted our movement two days after the attack, insisting it was for "security reasons."
Security. Right.
I clenched my fists in my pockets. I had just become a Genin, just earned the chance to walk this village as a real shinobi. And yet it felt like the ground beneath my feet had already chosen sides.
But today wasn't about that. Today, I was looking for her.
Kuroha.
I hadn't seen her properly since the attack—just a glimpse right after the Nine-Tails fell. She'd been standing in the smoke and fire, silent, unresponsive, her eyes glassy like she wasn't fully there. I remembered touching her shoulder.
She didn't react. Didn't blink. Didn't speak.
And then she disappeared. For three days, no one could give me an answer.
Her house is empty. Her parents…
I swallowed and forced the thought down.
So I searched. Because someone had to.
I headed toward the forest, toward the place she always trained. The rain grew heavier, blurring the world into a mess of grey and movement. My sandals sank in the mud as I approached the clearing.
And there she was.
Kuroha stood in the centre of the training ground, soaked through, black hair plastered against her cheeks. Her breathing was ragged, each exhale shaking her thin frame. She moved mechanically, executing strikes, kicks, movement after movement.
Her hands were covered in cuts—some shallow, some deep.
Her chakra was unstable, flaring and collapsing in uneven bursts.
Her body trembled under its own weight.
She was hurting herself.
By continuing long past the point any normal child—or any normal shinobi—would have collapsed.
"Kuroha!" I called out.
No reaction. She didn't even flinch.
"Kuroha! Stop!"
She kept going, faster now, almost desperate. The rain washed down her face, but I wasn't sure it hid her tears or revealed them.
My chest tightened. I stepped forward, grabbing her arms before she could pull away. Her skin was freezing, her muscles quivering like over-tightened wires ready to snap. She finally looked up at me.
And I froze.
Her eyes – red, bright alive in a way that terrified me – the Sharingan.
Two tomoe in each eye, spinning faintly, like embers refusing to die.
"Kuroha…" I breathed, but my voice sounded too small in the rain. "You need to stop. You're destroying yourself."
Her lips parted, but no words came. For a moment, she looked like she didn't even recognize me. Like she was somewhere far away and couldn't find the way back.
Then her knees buckled.
I caught her before she hit the ground, my hands gripping her shoulders as she slumped forward, forehead pressing weakly against my chest.
And then she broke.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. It was quiet. Too quiet.
"I tried…" she whispered, voice thin, trembling. "I tried–I knew–and I told him and I trained and I tried but it didn't matter–nothing mattered–everyone died–everyone will–"
"Kuroha, breathe," I said, though my own breath was unsteady.
"I tried… and I couldn't stop it… and I can't stop anything… and they're gone—"
Her voice cracked. A sound so small, so fragile, I almost didn't hear it beneath the rain.
I pulled her closer as her legs gave out completely. Her fingers clutched the fabric of my shirt, desperate, shaking violently with cold and grief and whatever else she kept buried under that impossible discipline of hers.
She was an eight-year-old kid. But in that moment, she felt older and younger all at once.
Broken. Exhausted. Terrified.
Her Sharingan flickered weakly.
"It's okay," I murmured, though I knew it wasn't. "You're not alone. I've got you."
Her weight sagged fully against me. And then she went limp.
The storm raged on.
And I carried her home.