The weeks moved like a pregnant sloth-slow, heavy, and oddly stifling.
My parents ant it when they said I needed to rest. They yanked out of school for three whole weeks and, to drive the point ho, refused to let send a shadow clone in my place.
Instead, I spent my days painting canvases until my fingers slled faintly of ink and pignts, pruning our garden, tuning my instrunts, and helping Mom prepare for the grand opening of her flower shop. I tested new recipes, too, tweaking flavors until they felt right.
When Shikaku dropped by, I played shogi with him while Dad and Choza hovered on the sidelines, snacking on whatever I'd whipped up that day.
I never won a single match against him-not yet, anyway. But after countless gas, I noticed subtle changes.
He occasionally paused longer, his gaze narrowing as if my moves required a second thought. A tiny wrinkle ford above his left brow now and then.
I took those little details as victories of their own. Maybe soon, I'd surprise him. Maybe one day I'd wipe that unreadable Nara smirk right off his face.
Yeah. I was sure that would feel quite good.
Shisui visited often, delivering my missed howork and checking up on .
It was odd how quickly we bonded-one month, maybe less-but our friendship felt... solid.
He tried to play coy about it, but I caught him smiling and joking more openly these days. Dare I say he might consider his... best friend? I chuckled at the thought.
Even though I was ntally decades older than him, we got along quite well.
Without training to occupy us, I showed Shisui how to paint delicate strokes across a blank canvas, how to coax lodies from a piano, and how to play the violin.
He watched with his Sharingan-his eyes whirring like tiny red caras recording every flick of my wrist.
After a few attempts, he could match the skill of soone who had worked at it for years. Of course, he was nowhere near my level; I had the talent of a literal God.
Painting didn't hold his interest for long; music did, though-especially the violin. He said its voice soothed him, moved him.
I didn't ask him to define it; so feelings don't have words.
I was having one specially made for his-our-birthday coming up. Which, fun fact, was on the sa day-October 19th.
When my parents learned about it, their eyes t in that subtle, "we're using Whisper to talk secretly" look.
Then ca an unexpected knock at our door: Shizune.
We'd only known each other for a few days, barely enough ti to form any real bond, yet here she was, standing in our entryway, insisting she couldn't let a five-year-old fall behind in class.
As if missing so lectures could slow down-I had the entire curriculum stored in my Mind Palace-but I let her in anyway. I had no reason not to.
She seed sincere, if a bit stiff. Perhaps nervous. I'm sure my antics from the other day didn't help.
I made dinner because that's what I did these days-cooked, painted, and listened to distant laughter from my parents as they bustled around while Dad was here and away from the war.
Shizune took one bite and burst into tears.
It had beco a normal occurrence-people crying after they ate my food for the first ti- so I thought nothing of it and let her weep in peace as she devoured the entire plate.
Shisui, leaning against the wall, raised an eyebrow at as if to say, "You made her cry?" I shrugged, sending [Just like you?] He rolled his eyes at that.
Shizune caught on quickly that Shisui and I were different-advanced, so to speak.
Instead of getting defensive or jealous, she quickly began bouncing around dical knowledge and asking questions about dical theory, chakra circulation, and tissue regeneration.
I answered while dabbing my brush into paint, shaping delicate petals on canvas. Shisui played the violin in the background, practicing a piece I had taught him the other day.
We slipped into a comfortable routine, the three of us-acquaintances turned friends. It was nice-a good change of pace.
The elders filtered in over the following weeks, dropping by one after another.
There were no surprise visits to drag into sparring, no lectures disguised as lessons. They just ca, shared a few words, maybe sipped tea or snagged a to-go plate, then left. Lady Tsunade and Daiki never ca.
When I asked about him, Dad explained that he wasn't allowed near anymore-neither as a trainer nor as a guest. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised.
From my perspective, I was an adult trapped in a child's body, but to my parents and the clan, I was still their five-year-old heir. In their eyes, Daiki hadn't just pushed too far; he'd crossed a line, inflicting wounds that shouldn't have been possible-physical and otherwise. My parents made it clear that, first, it wasn't his or anyone else's place, but even if he decided to step in, Daiki should have spoken to ; he should have taught with words rather than broken ribs and an almost shattered mind.
They wouldn't tolerate unnecessary harm to their child (to their heir), no matter who delivered it. If I had been a normal five-year-old, I might have ended up traumatized-just
like Kiburi.
Which, at the ti, I had justified my actions towards him on so twisted level: Kiburi had attacked first, and I was only defending myself and my clan. But I knew what I was doing-I, an adult ntally, had egged on a ten-year-old to strike first so I could teach him a lesson -by decapitation.
Deep down, I viewed him as inconsequential. A side character. Just an NPC-soone who didn't fully register as real.
I had been living in this world with the subconscious notion that everyone I t was part of a script, pieces on a board with a predetermined path-one I could engage with or not.
Even though I was physically here-feeling the air, tasting the food, building relationships- I still carried a lingering detachnt, a faint but persistent whisper that these people weren't truly "people," just fragnts of a story I knew too well.
The people around were real-painfully, beautifully real.
This was their world, too.
I would carry that lesson forward, never again letting my old-world detachnt justify my
distance.
Losing Daiki, a skilled instructor, stung, but my parents promised to find another teacher. A better teacher.
They wanted the best for , and I believed them. After all, if these quiet weeks taught anything, it was that life held more than relentless training.
There were als shared with friends, laughter echoing through hallways, gentle music in the background, and the subtle comfort of knowing I wasn't alone.
Though those slow days tested my patience and made restless at tis, I couldn't deny
the warmth settling in my chest.
Maybe stopping wasn't a weakness; perhaps it was just another kind of strength.
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