The clock read 6:13 a.m.
Kakashi moved toward the Academy, the cool breath of Konoha's morning air settling into his body like clear water poured into a still vessel. Each step carried him across streets paved in black brick—stones worn smooth by countless feet, others chipped and uneven, all catching the pale shimmer of dawn.
Shutters clacked open one by one, their wooden frames rattling against walls as the first restaurants stirred awake. Thin ribbons of steam curled lazily from vents, carrying with them the faint, comforting scent of soy and simmering broth. The fragrance mingled with the crisp air, a reminder that the village was beginning to stir.
Kakashi's pace remained steady, his breathing shallow yet precise—each inhale measured, each exhale controlled, as if his lungs were instruments tuned to discipline. His silver hair shifted faintly with the breeze, but his expression remained unreadable, eyes scanning without pause.
The village itself seemed caught between sleep and waking. Paper lanterns still glowed faintly, their light dim and tired. Awnings sagged under the weight of night's lingering dampness. Narrow alleyways clung to shadows, reluctant to surrender them to the rising sun. It was a world half-asleep, and Kakashi walked through it with quiet intent—observing, memorizing, and breathing in rhythm with the silence.
He saw a man in his forties crossing from building to building in civilian clothes. Disciplined movement. Eyes heavy with fatigue yet alert in the way of people who've lived too long at the edges. His hand brushed a lintel—checking, not supporting—before he slid along the wall's shadow toward the next doorway. His face carried the quiet of someone used to being unseen.
Civil clothes. No insignia. Eyes scan without turning the head. If he's ANBU, he's high ranking—too composed for a fresh return. Probably heading home before the streets fill.
Most of them have nothing to lose—at least not anymore.
Just like Kakashi. But if an operative eventually found someone to care about, ANBU was no longer an option; you stepped back into the ranks of regular shinobi unless your role was so indispensable that command tolerated the attachment.
"ANBU," he murmured, the word thinning into the cool air. "The ones who do the dirty work before the threat arrives."
ANBU was for those with nothing left to lose—a corps built on quiet knives and necessary shadows at the borders of the Land of Fire. If protecting Konoha required pressure, they applied it. If it required conflict across borders, they created it. Their moral code was singular: "Protect Konoha."
He kept the thought buried within himself, walking on, eyes sweeping across every detail of his surroundings. Each step, each glance, was deliberate—an effort to make observation a habit, an instinct, a path toward mastering The Form of Nothingness.
As his pace carried him forward, he stopped before the graveyard gate—iron bars painted in dark lacquer, a simple arch stamped with the Leaf symbol. Beyond the gate, in the center of the cemetery, stood a solemn statue: red fire carved in stone, frozen in eternal burn.
The morning breeze threaded through the ironwork and brushed against his face, cool and clean, carrying with it the scent of damp earth, cut grass, and the faint mineral tang of dew. It felt strange against bare skin.
To be honest, he was still uncomfortable without his mask. Yet what needed to be done was already done, and Kakashi was not someone who backed down from his own decisions. His father had masked him before the Academy—probably when he was three years old—and since then, he had never removed it. Now, at seven years and four months, he stood unmasked, a new version of himself.
Three years until I'm a full-fledged shinobi.
Thanks to the peaceful era after the Second Shinobi World War.
He lingered in front of the graveyard gate, thoughts heavy. In earlier times, the age bent under pressure—about eight years old to join the ranks. In war, age vanished altogether: if you could kill the enemy, you were old enough to be shinobi. You had to learn, kill, and survive. If you couldn't learn fast enough, you died.
That was war.
War was a cruel teacher—and an efficient one. The First Shinobi World War had shown the world how power truly moved, and men like Sakumo Hatake were forged in that furnace—a name that made enemies tremble before steel was even drawn.
Dismissing the unnecessary thoughts, Kakashi stepped into the graveyard.
His pace slowed immediately. The air inside felt different—heavier, colder, unmoving. It carried the faint scent of damp stone, dry leaves, and old earth that had been turned and turned again.
With every step forward, his chest tightened, as though the ground itself resisted him, as though walking closer required strength he hadn't planned to spend.
His expression softened despite his effort to keep it neutral. The sharp edge in his eye dulled, replaced by something quieter. Something heavier. Tears gathered at the corners of his vision, blurring the stone paths ahead.
Not now… hold it together.
He clenched his jaw, forcing the pressure down, and continued until he stopped.
Sakumo Hatake's grave stood alone.
Not among the regular shinobi graves. Not beside his wife, where Sakumo had once wished to rest. Not among the honored heroes of Konoha, where he belonged.
It was tucked away in a forgotten corner, half-shadowed by a cherry tree that no longer bloomed properly. Its branches were thin, brittle, stripped of vitality. The bark was cracked, the leaves sparse and dull, clinging weakly to life. A tree that was still standing, but already dying.
Just like its master had.
All because of one failed mission. One decision.
Even after his death, the village had turned its back on him.
The gravestone was bare. Only a name. No achievements. No honors. No mention of the countless lives he had saved, the wars he had survived, the future he had secured for people who now pretended he had never existed. As if Konoha had been in a hurry to bury him and move on.
Kakashi stood there in silence, emotions churning violently beneath the surface—grief, anger, resentment, longing—each one pressing against his ribs, threatening to crack them open.
He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to collapse onto the dirt and let it all spill out.
But he didn't.
Maybe because he wanted to prove something—to his father, to the world, to himself. That he wasn't a weak child anymore.
So instead, he exhaled slowly. Unevenly.
"Hey… Dad," he said.
His voice came out low, strained, rough around the edges, as though it had scraped its way up from somewhere deep in his chest.
"How are you doing?"
The words lingered in the still air.
He inhaled shakily. A few tears escaped despite his resistance, clinging stubbornly to his lashes. He wiped them away with the back of his hand and crouched down in front of the grave.
Dust coated the stone. Dry leaves had gathered at its base. Without thinking, he brushed them away with his bare hand, slow and careful, as if afraid of being too rough.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice hoarse though his body hadn't moved much at all. "I couldn't come see you for the past couple of weeks."
His gaze drifted lower. The grass around the grave had grown tall and wild. He reached to his thigh pouch and pulled out a longer combat kunai, its edge dull from age but still serviceable. Kneeling, he began cutting the grass down methodically.
"You probably already know," he continued quietly, the steel whispering through stems. "I was in a bit of a mess. Hospitalized for two weeks."
A humorless breath left him.
"Don't blame me. What did you expect?" His jaw tightened. "From a kid whose father just… left him. Without any explanation."
He finished clearing the grass and leaned closer, lowering himself until his mouth was near the stone.
"And don't expect me to live a peaceful life," he whispered. "You already ruined that."
His expression hardened.
"I'm going to become the strongest shinobi who ever lived," he said, voice barely above a breath, making sure nobody would hear him even if they wanted to. "I'll stand above the entire shinobi world. No one will question me. No one will judge me."
His fingers curled slowly.
"Believe me. I will do it."
He stood, tossing the cut grass into a nearby bin. Then he stepped back toward the grave and reached up, gripping one of the brittle branches of the dying cherry tree.
His voice dropped, sharp with restrained bitterness.
"And I won't make the same mistake as you," he said. "I won't prioritize comrades over my goals. My success comes first. Always."
He tightened his grip. The wood cracked softly in his hand.
"That's a promise."
He let the broken pieces fall without looking back.
As he turned to leave, he paused.
"I took off the mask," he added quietly. "And I don't want to hear any complaints about it."
A pause.
"And I'll try to visit."
Then, softer: "Bye… for now."
When Kakashi finally turned away from the grave, his body hesitated. Just for a heartbeat.
Coming here had taken effort. Every step toward the graveyard had felt wrong, heavy, like moving against an unseen current. His instincts had resisted it, urging him to keep walking, to delay, to avoid the place where his father rested.
Yet he had forced himself forward anyway.
Now, as he walked away, that resistance shifted. His feet moved, but something inside him pulled back hard—an invisible weight anchored to the ground behind him. His chest tightened sharply, his breath stuttering as though his lungs themselves refused to cooperate.
The closer he got to the exit, the worse it became.
He didn't want to leave.
Moments ago, his body had rejected coming here. Now it rejected going away. His heart screamed at him to stop. To turn back. To sit down beside the grave and stay there. To lie on the cold earth and let everything he had been holding in finally break loose.
His steps slowed. His vision blurred.
For a terrifying second, he thought he might collapse.
But he didn't.
He clenched his teeth, forced his legs to move, and kept walking.
He stopped walking altogether.
Not at his father's grave. But beside another.
His mother's.
He placed one trembling hand on the headstone and bowed his head. The tears he had suppressed this entire time finally spilled free.
But he didn't make a sound.
The name carved in his mother's grave read:
Hana Hatake
A loving wife
A skilled shinobi of the Inuzuka clan
Her tracking abilities greatly aided Konoha
Konoha will never forget her contribution
He stared at the words for a long time, until they blurred.
She hadn't been famous. She hadn't been legendary. She hadn't changed the course of wars or shattered enemy lines.
But it was tradition. In Konoha, the dead were honored generously. Their virtues were carved a little larger than life, their sacrifices polished smooth by respectful words. Even those who lived quiet, unremarkable lives were given dignity in death.
"Hey… Mom," he said quietly.
His voice cracked immediately.
"I don't really know you," he admitted. "I don't think I ever saw you."
A weak smile trembled across his lips.
"But whenever Dad came here… he always brought flowers. Even when he was exhausted. He always brought me with him."
His smile wavered.
"He must have loved you a lot."
He looked at the empty offering space.
"You probably know already," he said, his voice shaking now. "Dad's gone too."
His breathing hitched.
"He couldn't handle some criticism. So he left me alone… just to find peace in death."
Tears streamed freely now.
"If you see him," he whispered through broken breaths, "hit him. Or… hit him a few times. Tell him he's a complete jerk."
His fists clenched in the dirt.
"He didn't think about me. Not even once. Not about what I'd do without him."
His voice collapsed entirely.
After everything poured out, the weight in his chest finally eased. He wiped his face, breathing deeply, slowly forcing himself to calm down.
"I'll bring flowers for you," he said softly. "Since Dad can't anymore."
He stood. Didn't look back. Afraid that if he did, he wouldn't be able to leave.
So he started to move, performing high jumps over the buildings of Konoha and wiping the last of his tears.