Sakura noticed the distance.
Not physical—emotional.
Boruto was affectionate, obedient, thoughtful beyond his years… but there was a quiet grief in him that didn't belong to a child.
One evening, she sat beside him on the engawa, the sky painted in soft oranges and pinks.
"You know," she said casually, "you don't look at your father like most children do."
Boruto stiffened.
"How do I look at him?" he asked carefully.
Sakura turned to him, eyes gentle but piercing. "Like someone who's afraid of losing him twice."
The words landed perfectly.
Boruto's composure cracked.
She pulled him into her arms without hesitation.
"You don't have to explain," she whispered. "But you don't have to carry it alone either."
He clutched her shirt and cried—quietly, fiercely, like someone mourning a past no one else remembered.