Raizo woke before the sun because something inside his chest was pulling.
Not sharply. Not painfully. Just enough to make sleep impossible, like a tide tugging gently at an anchored boat. He lay still for several breaths, listening to the quiet of the house, the slow rhythm of his parents' heartbeats in the next room, the distant hush of the ocean beyond the cliffs.
The pull didn't fade.
It deepened.
Raizo sat up slowly, pressing his palm against his sternum. Warmth spread beneath his skin, spiraling outward in a familiar pattern. The air around his bed stirred in response, curtains lifting slightly as if caught by a breath that hadn't been taken.
He swallowed.
"She's still here," he whispered.
The words weren't fear. They were certainty.
Raizo slipped from bed and padded quietly toward the door. The house felt different this morning—quieter, but not calm. Like the pause between waves before something large rolled in.
Outside, Uzushiogakure was wrapped in pale mist.
It clung low to the ground, pooling between buildings and coiling around stone spirals carved into walls and paths. Sound felt distant, muffled, as if the village were being listened to rather than lived in.
Raizo stepped onto the porch and breathed in.
The wind moved.
Then it stopped.
Not because it had nowhere to go—but because something else had claimed it first.
Raizo frowned. The air felt… held.
Like water caught in cupped hands.
Akane found him standing there moments later.
She hadn't heard him leave his room. She'd felt the shift instead—a subtle tightening in the house's chakra flow that made her sit up in bed with her heart already racing.
"Raizo," she said softly, stepping onto the porch beside him. "You should wake us next time."
He didn't look at her right away. "She didn't go," he said.
Akane's breath hitched. "Mito?"
Raizo nodded. "She's sad today."
That frightened Akane more than anger would have.
Riku joined them silently, his presence grounding and solid. He followed Raizo's gaze toward the mist-covered village.
"The wind won't listen," Raizo added quietly. "It's being told to wait."
Riku closed his eyes briefly.
So she was still here.
Not watching from afar.
Walking.
Uzushio woke slowly that morning.
Doors opened with caution. Conversations stayed low. Fishermen hesitated before pushing their boats into the water, frowns deepening as they felt resistance where there should have been none. The ocean rolled, but its edges were tight, controlled, as if bound by invisible lines.
Raizo felt it all.
Every hesitation. Every worried thought. Every whisper of fear.
Hina arrived at full speed anyway.
She burst through the mist like a thrown stone, skidding to a stop in front of Raizo with wild eyes.
"EVERYONE SAYS THERE'S A RED-HAIRED LADY WALKING AROUND," she announced breathlessly. "AND THAT THE WATER WON'T MOVE RIGHT AND THAT THE WIND IS STUCK AND THAT—"
She stopped abruptly.
Raizo was already nodding.
"She's sad," he said again.
Hina blinked. "Sad?"
"Yes."
"That's… not what anyone else is saying."
Raizo tilted his head. "They're listening with their fear."
Hina stared at him for a long moment, then pointed dramatically. "You're cheating again."
Raizo almost smiled.
They found her near the tide wall.
Mito Uzumaki stood at the edge of the stone barrier, looking out over the sea as if listening to something far beyond the horizon. Her red hair was loose today, lifting slightly in the mist-laden breeze, seals woven through the strands glinting faintly with restrained power.
The ocean answered her presence with obedience.
Waves rose and fell carefully, precise in their motion. The wind curled toward her, then stopped short, held in an invisible tension that made Raizo's skin prickle.
Mito didn't turn as they approached.
She didn't need to.
"I was hoping you'd come," she said.
Raizo stepped forward before Akane could stop him.
"You're sad," he said gently.
Mito's shoulders rose with a quiet breath. "Yes."
"Why?"
She turned then, meeting his gaze without hesitation. The weight of her chakra pressed against him—not overwhelming, not crushing, but vast enough that his knees wobbled for a moment before he steadied himself.
"Because the world has begun to notice you," she said. "And because I know what that costs."
Raizo frowned. "You cost something too."
Her eyes softened. "Yes."
She knelt beside him, one knee touching stone. The Nine-Tails stirred beneath her seal, a vast presence shifting lazily but attentively, aware of the child before it.
"You hear too much," Mito said quietly. "That isn't your fault."
Raizo swallowed. "Can you make it quieter?"
"For now," she said. "But not forever."
They walked along the tide wall together, mist curling around their ankles. Akane and Riku followed at a respectful distance, neither willing to interrupt the quiet gravity of the moment.
"When I was young," Mito said, "the world was loud to me too. Louder than it had any right to be."
Raizo listened carefully.
"The difference," she continued, "is that no one taught me how to listen safely."
Raizo's brow furrowed. "You learned anyway."
"Yes," she agreed. "And I paid for it."
They stopped near a section of wall etched with ancient seals—old Uzumaki work, thick with history.
"The Nine-Tails feels you," Mito said without preamble.
Raizo stiffened. "It was watching."
Mito nodded. "It watches anything that might one day stand beside it—or against it."
Raizo considered that. "Does it hate me?"
"No," she said firmly. "It recognizes you."
That answer unsettled him more.
Mito placed her hand against the stone.
Seals glowed faintly beneath her palm—chains of chakra spreading outward in precise lines, wrapping invisibly through the air. The wind slowed. The water tightened further.
Raizo felt the restraint immediately.
"Chains," he whispered.
"Yes," Mito said. "Not to imprison. To protect."
He looked at her. "They hurt the world."
"They do," she admitted. "All chains do. Even kind ones."
Raizo felt the truth of that settle deep in his chest.
"Will you teach me?" he asked quietly.
Mito smiled sadly. "That is why I stayed."
That night, Raizo dreamed of water bound by light and wind held in careful loops. He dreamed of chains glowing white-hot, not as weapons, but as promises that demanded sacrifice.
When he woke, the pull in his chest had softened—but it hadn't vanished.
The storm wasn't breaking yet.
But it was learning the shape of its restraints.
And far beyond Uzushio's cliffs, the world continued to listen.
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