The first cry came out weak, almost hesitant, as if the sound had been pulled from a body that still wasn't sure it wanted to be there.
It didn't echo loudly. It didn't draw attention right away. Even so, it was enough to break the heavy silence that had filled the room for hours — a silence made of restrained breaths, watchful eyes, and the kind of tension only those who have stood on the edge of losing something precious can recognize.
One of the midwives leaned over the small body wrapped in simple cloth. Her experienced fingers carefully adjusted the fabric, while her eyes remained fixed on the newborn's uneven breathing.
"He's breathing…" she murmured, more to herself than to anyone else.
Outside, the sky was beginning to lighten. Soft shades of gray and orange blended above the rooftops of Konoha, announcing a new day. The village stirred slowly, unaware that inside that modest room, two lives had just crossed a point of no return.
The second cry came soon after.
Louder. Stronger. A clear sound that filled the space without hesitation, as if the child were claiming his place in the world from the very first moment.
Some people breathed in relief. Others exchanged silent glances, heavy with thoughts no one dared to voice.
Two cries. Two beginnings. And yet, so different.
The woman lying on the bed breathed with difficulty. Every breath demanded effort, her body still caught between exhaustion and pain that refused to fully fade.
Her pale face was marked by sweat and fatigue, but her eyes remained open, alert, searching for the sounds nearby.
When she finally managed to focus on them, her lips curved into a weak but genuine smile.
"Are they… all right?" she asked.
Her voice was low and hoarse, yet filled with a concern so clear no one had the heart to ignore it.
"They're alive," one of the midwives replied after a brief pause. "Both of them."
It wasn't a comforting answer. But it was honest. And for that moment, it was enough.
Mikoto closed her eyes for a second, feeling some of the weight slowly ease from her chest.
It wasn't complete relief — not yet — but it allowed her to breathe a little more freely.
The first baby was quiet now. His crying had stopped, replaced by short, uneven breaths, as if his body were still learning the rhythm it needed.
His tiny chest rose and fell with effort, and there was something about his expression that didn't match a newborn.
It was too serious. Too focused.
Mikoto felt her heart tighten as she looked at him.
Not out of fear. Never fear. But from a protective instinct so strong it almost hurt.
He was too small. Too fragile.
The thought that anything might happen to him made her chest constrict.
"So quiet…" she murmured, mostly to herself.
The second baby moved more.
His cries gradually faded into irritated little grunts.
His arms flailed without coordination, hands opening and closing aimlessly, full of raw, simple energy.
"He doesn't waste any time," someone commented quietly, with a tired half-smile.
Mikoto slowly turned her head, gathering the strength to see them both more clearly.
Her vision was still a little blurred, her body too heavy for sudden movements, but once she focused on them, something inside her settled.
They were different. She felt it clearly.
She didn't need words. She didn't need explanations.
It was instinct. Deep and undeniable.
Still, there was no comparison. No preference.
They were her children.
"Bring them… bring them closer," she asked.
The midwives obeyed carefully, bringing the two small bodies closer to the bed.
For a brief moment, they lay side by side.
Two tiny faces. Two distinct expressions. Two lives beginning together.
Mikoto slowly reached out.
Her fingers trembled slightly, not from fear, but from exhaustion.
When she touched the forehead of the first baby, a faint shiver ran up her arm.
It was a strange sensation. Subtle. Not unpleasant.
She leaned her head closer, watching him carefully.
"So serious…" she whispered, her lips forming a weak smile. "You must be tired."
As if responding to her touch, the baby stirred slightly.
His body seemed to relax.
His breathing grew steadier.
The tightness in Mikoto's chest intensified.
She wanted to protect him.
To wrap him in something greater than her own exhausted arms.
Then she touched the other baby.
He reacted almost immediately.
Let out a small grunt.
Tried to move his hands.
Tiny fingers clenched at the air, as if searching for something to hold.
Mikoto let out a soft, nearly soundless laugh.
"And you…" she murmured fondly. "You already want to fight the whole world."
For a moment, the room seemed to grow still.
The pain, the exhaustion, the weight of the previous hours faded into the background.
All that existed were those two small bodies breathing.
Alive. Warm. Facing the world they had just entered.
"They'll be fine," Mikoto said, her voice steadier now. "Both of them."
Not long after, footsteps echoed outside the room.
Different from the earlier ones. More restrained. More deliberate.
The door opened carefully.
Fugaku entered in silence.
His gaze swept quickly across the room — the midwives, the stained cloths, Mikoto on the bed — until it settled on the two small bodies beside her.
For a moment, he said nothing.
His rigid posture remained, but there was something in his eyes few ever got to see: genuine attention.
"So…" he began, his voice low. "They've arrived."
Mikoto nodded slowly.
"They have."
Fugaku stepped closer to the bed.
He didn't touch the babies right away.
He observed.
The second one moved more, restless even now.
The first remained quiet, eyes closed, breathing carefully, as if every movement were measured.
"Different," Fugaku remarked after a few seconds.
There was no surprise in his voice. Only certainty.
Mikoto followed his gaze.
"From the beginning," she replied.
Fugaku remained silent for a moment longer.
Then he spoke.
"The more restless one has fire. He doesn't wait. He doesn't hesitate."
The baby responded with a small grunt, as if disagreeing with the seriousness of the assessment.
Mikoto smiled faintly.
"And the other?" she asked.
Fugaku looked away, focusing on the first baby.
"He observes," he replied. "Even while sleeping."
The word lingered in the air.
Mikoto felt a gentle ache in her chest.
"He worries me," she admitted. "Not because he's weak. But because he feels too much."
Fugaku met her gaze.
"Feeling isn't weakness."
"I know," she said softly. "But the world doesn't always know that."
Silence settled over the room again — heavy, yet intimate.
After a while, Mikoto took a deep breath.
"We need to choose their names."
Fugaku nodded.
She looked first at the more restless baby.
"Sasuke," she said gently. "The one who doesn't give up."
Then her eyes moved to the other.
The quiet one.
The attentive one.
The one who seemed to carry the world behind closed eyes.
Mikoto hesitated longer.
As if she wanted to be certain.
"Ren," she said at last. "Lotus."
Fugaku raised an eyebrow slightly.
"A calm name."
"Strong," she corrected. "In a different way."
She reached out, lightly touching the quieter baby.
"He'll need that."
Two cries had marked the beginning.
Two paths were opening there.
And somewhere unseen, something seemed to be watching.
In silence.