Morning came without ceremony.
No alarms.
No shouting from the courtyard.
No jokes echoing down the hall.
The academy still stood, walls unbroken, floors clean—yet something essential had been taken. People moved slower now, as if the air itself resisted motion. Even footsteps sounded careful.
Tobi woke before dawn.
For a moment, he forgot.
For one brief, merciful second, the world felt normal.
Then the silence reminded him.
Ren's bed was still made.
Not neatly—Ren had never been neat—but untouched. A jacket hung half-off the chair, one sleeve brushing the floor. Tobi stared at it longer than he meant to, waiting for some sign it would move, that Ren would stumble back in complaining about another sleepless night.
Nothing happened.
Tobi sat down instead.
He didn't punch the wall.
Didn't curse fate.
Didn't cry.
That scared him more than anything.
---
Outside, Iruka stood by the railings, gripping them hard enough that his knuckles whitened. He'd been there since sunrise, eyes fixed on the path beyond the academy gates.
"I should've gone with him," he muttered.
No one answered.
Mizumi tried to joke later—tried—but the words collapsed halfway out of his mouth. He laughed alone, too loudly, then went quiet when no one joined.
Sumi said even less.
She spent the morning near the shrine corner, adjusting things that didn't need adjusting. When Tobi passed by, their eyes met for a second—just a second—and in that look was understanding, sharp and painful.
Loss didn't need explaining.
Yanshi watched them all from a distance.
He said nothing.
That, somehow, felt heavier than words.
---
That night, as rain brushed lightly against the rooftops, memory took hold.
Not as pain.
As truth.
---
Ren had grown up in a place too small for heroes.
A narrow street. A café squeezed between old buildings. Warm light spilling out late into the night. The smell of cheap coffee and burnt toast. His world had been simple.
His father—no, not father.
The café manager. The man everyone thought was family.
Ren used to watch him close shop, counting coins carefully, smiling even when the numbers didn't add up. That man always smiled. Always said things would work out.
One night, Ren waited.
And waited.
The café lights stayed off.
By morning, the street knew.
They said it was for money.
They said it was quick.
They said many things.
Ren listened to none of them.
At the river later that day, he sat alone, feet dangling above the water. He didn't scream. Didn't swear revenge. He just stared at his reflection, watching it shake with the current.
If I get stronger, he thought, maybe no one else has to disappear like this.
It wasn't a vow.
It wasn't dramatic.
It was quiet.
Honest.
Stubborn.
That was Ren.
---
Years later, standing at the academy gates for the first time, Ren had smiled the same way—small, a little crooked, like he wasn't sure he belonged but decided to step forward anyway.
When he met Tobi, he didn't see destiny.
He saw someone who looked lonely.
So he stayed.
Not because he was brave.
Not because he was chosen.
Because staying mattered.
---
Back in the present, the rain slowed.
Tobi stood alone under the eaves, eyes closed.
He remembered Ren laughing.
Complaining.
Talking about dumb plans and future meals.
And finally—Ren's smile.
Not the kind that promised safety.
The kind that said:
I'm still here. For now. That's enough.
Tobi opened his eyes.
The silence hadn't gone away.
But something else remained.
A reason.
Far away, unseen, something old and dark shifted—as if it had noticed that grief was no longer empty.
And somewhere in that quiet, lingering memory…
Ren smiled.