Chapter Text
Saint Bernards don’t save anyone anymore,
they just sit in the yard, chained to nothing but themselves.
I’ve watched their shadows grow long and tired,
and wondered if growing up is just learning
how to be okay with the collar.
“Do you believe in… reincarnation?”
“No way. That stuff is all just hokey nonsense… Why? Don’t tell me you do.”
“Maybe. The idea’s kind of… comforting, you know?”
“...Comforting? No. Not even a little.”
Unlike what most people would think, death isn’t cold.
It’s actually like taking a dip into a scalding hot ocean. Bubbling, sizzling water surrounding you on all sides, scorching your skin until it feels like there's nothing left to burn. The heat strips everything away—your pain, your fear, your identity… Until all that's left is silence.
But even that doesn’t last forever.
She never expected much when it came to dying. Maybe a shallow grave at the least, a tabloid headline at most.
But instead, she woke up.
Not in the fiery embrace of whatever hell was meant for her, not in the dark void of nothingness she figured awaited people like her, but in a painfully bright hospital room and the sharp cry of a newborn. Her sharp cry.
“Congratulations, Haruno-san,” came a voice, distant and muffled, as though she were hearing it underwater. “It’s a girl.”
She wanted to scream, to cry out, What the hell is this? But all that came from her lips was a pitiful wail, the only sound her undeveloped vocal cords could produce. Panic clawed at her as she tried to make sense of her surroundings, her body, her self.
And then came the realization: she was alive. Again.
Why?
A hand—large, warm, and gentle in contrast to the burning memory of death—brushed against her forehead. “She’s beautiful,” another voice murmured. This one was softer, sweeter.
A life she didn’t ask for, in a body that wasn’t hers, surrounded by strangers who would never know the truth.
“She’s perfect,” the woman whispered, her lips brushing against the infant’s forehead. “My little Sakura.”
Dying was easy.
Living was something else entirely.
Her mom is Mebuki. Her father is Kizashi. Together, they are the Harunos.
It was a simple truth, but somehow, it was hard to think about. Harder to accept.
There were so many things different from her old world, so alien… but then, there were some things that didn’t change. When she’s around a month old, her parents wrap her tightly in soft swaddling, bundle her up like a delicate package, and leave the village.
The journey is strange, surreal, but it triggers something in her. A memory.
In her old life, she was never much for religion. The first—and last—time she had ever stepped foot in a Shinto shrine was for her friend’s Miyamairi[1] ceremony. She had stood on the outskirts, awkward in her too-modern clothes, watching as her friend’s newborn was blessed for a future she wasn’t sure any of them believed in.
Now, as her parents stop before the grand torii gates of the shrine, the memory makes her stomach twist.
The shrine is beautiful—towering vermilion gates framing an ancient path that seems to stretch into eternity. Cherry blossoms, faintly out of season, dot the edges of the courtyard. The air is heavy with the scent of incense, mingling with the faint tang of the countryside, so different from the polluted haze she can still recall so clearly.
The priest waits at the top, his expression serene, his hands folded neatly over his robes. Mebuki passes Sakura to him gently, her lips brushing against her daughter’s forehead one last time before she lets go. Sakura feels the warmth of her mother’s touch fade, replaced by the firm but careful grip of the priest. He holds her aloft, turning toward the shrine’s main hall as his voice rises in solemn prayer.
She doesn’t understand the words, not fully—her baby brain isn’t developed enough to process language the way her mind remembers it—but the tone is enough.
It resonates, deep and rhythmic, like a lullaby for a soul that doesn’t deserve peace.
Her mind drifts back to that long-ago day at the shrine. She remembers her friend clutching her baby, standing so close to the priest with her head bowed, thinking about how fragile it all was.
I didn’t belong there then, she thinks, watching Mebuki and Kizashi now, their hands clasped together in silent prayer. And I don’t belong here now.
“You have such an obedient little girl,” the woman remarked, her long raven-black hair cascading over her shoulder as she sipped her tea.
“Oh, I know!” Mebuki replied with a soft laugh. “Sometimes I worry about how little she cries, but I suppose it’s a blessing in disguise.”
Sakura sat quietly in her high chair, her wide eyes darting between the two women, their voices drifting over her like background noise. She had no idea who this woman was, but it was clear she was good friends with her mother.
“Some children are like that.” The woman smiled, her gaze distant, as though she were seeing something far away. “I remember when Itachi was born. Not a sound came out of him, not even when they smacked his little feet. I thought something was wrong, but no. He was just… calm, even then.”
“He’s such a sweet little boy.”
Sakura listened quietly, her tiny hands gripping the edges of the high chair. Itachi. The name echoed in her mind like a distant bell, faint but familiar.
It was on the tip of her tongue, an itch she couldn’t quite scratch. Slowly, her gaze trailed down to the woman's plump and unmistakably pregnant stomach, tilting her head.
It’s a bit embarrassing, how long it took her to catch on.
She wasn’t stupid—far from it—but memories are such a strange thing. There are some things she could still recall so clearly, and others like mist slipping between her fingers. And then there were the gaps—whole chunks of her mind carved out, leaving her fumbling in the dark.
She could remember the heat of her death. She could remember the silence that followed, the void that should’ve swallowed her whole. But everything else? Gone. Faces, voices, even the act itself—it was a blank space, an unfinished page where she knew something important used to be.
What little she could grasp wasn’t enough. Just fractured images and fleeting sensations.
The sharp gleam of a blade… And the metallic taste of blood.
Then, the ground begins to shake, and her mother stumbles mid-step, clutching Sakura protectively against her chest. The trembling intensified, a low, guttural rumble that seemed to rise from the very earth itself.
The tension in the air was suffocating, heavy with the kind of dread that didn’t need words.
Slowly, her mother turned.
Sakura’s head lolled against Mebuki’s shoulder, her infant muscles unable to support the weight of her gaze, but she strained, desperate to see. And then she did.
A massive, looming figure stood in the distance, its crimson fur glowing like embers against the night sky. Nine tails lashed and coiled behind it, each movement deliberate and devastating. Its eyes burned with malice, twin orbs of hellish red that seemed to pierce straight through her.
For a moment, her thoughts stilled. She stared at the beast, its monstrous form etched against the chaos of fire and destruction. There was no panic, no screaming in her head, no frantic grasping for reason. Just a quiet, hollow realization.
Oh. The word echoed in her mind, strangely calm. I’ve met you before.
The Kyūbi’s roar split the air, but all Sakura could hear was the silence that followed, a silence she thought she’d left behind with death.
Mebuki’s voice broke through her thoughts, shaking with fear. “Kizashi!” she cried out, her panic a sharp contrast to the eerie stillness in Sakura’s head. “We have to move! Now!”
Kizashi appeared beside them, his expression grim but steady as he took Mebuki’s free hand and pulled her forward. “Stay close to me,” he said, his voice low but firm. “We’ll head to the shelters. Don’t stop, no matter what.”
The world around them was chaos—villagers running, screaming, some frozen in terror as the beast’s tails swept through buildings like they were made of paper. The night was alive with the crackle of flames and the distant shouts as people she’d never seen before flew above them.
Sakura’s tiny body jostled with every hurried step Mebuki took, her mother’s arms the only thing keeping her safe from the madness unfolding around them. Her view was limited—patches of the burning sky, streaks of rubble, fleeting glimpses of Kizashi’s tense expression—but she could hear everything. The screams, the roars, the desperate cries for help.
The pounding of her mother’s heart against her ear.
And through it all, the quiet stillness in her own head persisted. Detached. Observing.
This isn’t my life, she thought, the realization settling heavier with every second. I don’t belong here.
Yet as she watched a tail crash down in the distance, leveling another row of houses, she couldn’t help but wonder: Why do I feel like I’ve seen all of this before?
Sakura is a year old when she meets Itachi.
It was a warm spring afternoon, the kind where the breeze carried the faint scent of cherry blossoms, and the sun dappled the ground. Mebuki had dressed her in a soft pink kimono, the color almost matching the faint tint of her baby hair, and carried her in a snug sling as they made their way to the Uchiha compound.
Sakura wasn’t sure what the occasion was—it wasn’t like anyone bothered to explain things to an infant—but the air buzzed with quiet excitement. Mebuki chatted easily with Mikoto Uchiha, their laughter light and melodic as they walked together. When they arrived at the Uchiha home, the boy was already there, sitting quietly on the porch.
He was small, barely more than five years old. He didn’t speak, didn’t smile—just sat there, still as stone, his tiny hands clasped neatly in front of him.
The first thing she noticed about him was his hair, dark, impossibly dark, like a crow’s feathers dipped in ink, sleek and shining under the sunlight. It tugged at something inside her, something she didn’t have the words for—or the voice to express. Her heart thumped, the sound loud in her ears, and a sickening sense of want surged through her, so sharp it almost made her gasp.
She hated it. The feeling crawled under her skin, a twisted cocktail of longing and anger, desire and disgust. It burned in her chest, hotter with every second she stared at him. Itachi’s stillness, his quiet intensity, the way his presence seemed to fill the space around him—it all felt wrong.
Or maybe it was her that was wrong.
Itachi Uchiha turned his head, just slightly, his dark eyes meeting hers for the briefest of moments.
And in that instant, Sakura forgot how to breathe.
Mikoto crouched beside the boy, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Say hello, Itachi,” she encouraged, her voice patient but firm.
Itachi didn’t move at first. His gaze lingered on Sakura, dark and unreadable, like he was trying to make sense of her in the same way she was trying to make sense of him. For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t respond at all. But then, with the smallest tilt of his head, he murmured, “Hello.”
The sound of his voice—soft, measured, polite—scraped against something raw inside her. It was too different, and yet the same. Too close to what she’d lost, yet unbearably far from what she’d ever have again.
Sakura’s tiny body shifted in the sling as her fingers twitched, her infant instincts overriding her fractured thoughts. Before she even realized what she was doing, her chubby little hand shot out, and caught hold of Itachi’s hair.
Her fingers curled around the silky strands, pulling them with more force than her small frame should have been capable of. Itachi winced—not visibly, but enough for his posture to stiffen, his shoulders locking in place.
“Sakura!” Mebuki gasped, horrified, as she moved to gently pry her daughter’s hand away. “That’s not nice! Let go, sweetie.”
Before Mebuki could free his hair from Sakura's surprisingly strong grip, a soft sound cut through the tension—a laugh. Low and quiet at first, like the rumble of distant thunder, but unmistakable.
Itachi was laughing.
Mikoto’s eyes widened slightly at the sound, her lips parting in mild surprise. “Itachi…” she murmured, as if hearing him laugh was something rare, almost sacred.
Itachi’s quiet chuckle faded as quickly as it had come, but the faintest curve of a smile lingered at the corner of his mouth. His dark eyes softened just a fraction, enough that Sakura’s grip on his hair didn’t seem to bother him anymore. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, letting her chubby hand stay tangled in the dark strands.
“She’s strong,” he said simply.
Her mother’s face flushed a pale pink. “She’s usually so well-behaved,” Mebuki stammered, her hands hovering awkwardly near Sakura’s hand, unsure if she should intervene now that Itachi didn’t seem upset. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her!”
Mikoto smiled warmly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Don’t worry about it. Itachi doesn’t mind, do you?” She glanced down at her son, her tone both gentle and knowing.
Itachi shook his head once, a small, deliberate motion. “No,” he said softly, his eyes flickering back to Sakura.
Mebuki hesitated for a moment, her hands still hovering near Sakura’s stubborn grip, before letting out a nervous laugh. “Well, if you’re sure… I suppose she just has a strong personality.” She shifted her weight slightly, bouncing Sakura gently in the sling as if to distract her, but Sakura’s tiny fist remained firmly tangled in Itachi’s hair.
Soft, she thought. It wasn’t supposed to be soft.
“She must like you, Sakura doesn’t usually warm up to strangers this quickly.”
Itachi’s gaze remained on Sakura, quiet and unwavering. There was something unnerving about how still he was, how much he seemed to be observing without revealing a thing. For a moment, the only sound between them was the faint rustling of cherry blossoms in the breeze. Then, to everyone’s surprise, Itachi reached out, his small hand brushing against Sakura’s. His fingers were gentle as they worked to untangle her grip from his hair, his movements deliberate and calm.
When her hand finally came free, she gave a soft, dissatisfied coo, her tiny brows furrowing in what could only be described as infantile frustration.
“Hello, Sakura-tan…” Itachi mumbled once again, his voice quiet and polite.
She glared—or as much of a glare as her infant body could manage. It wasn’t much, but it burned with all the venom she could muster. Her tiny lips wobbled as she let out another dissatisfied sound, a noise somewhere between a whimper and a growl.
Sakura, for her part, was unconvinced. She didn’t like his stillness, didn’t like his calm, and most of all, she didn’t like him. Itachi Uchiha was soft. He wasn’t supposed to be soft.
Where she wanted to see a beast—wild, sharp, dirty. A stray mutt that snarled and bit. Instead, she was met with a kitten, quiet and composed, peering at her with infuriating indifference.
And Sakura hated kittens.
Sakura hated cute things. She hated small, stuffed animals—but only the kind with those obnoxiously rosy pink cheeks and fluttery, oversized lashes. She hated pastel ribbons tied in perfect little bows, and heels with cute pearls that looped around the ankles like they were delicate and precious things.
Cute things were a lie. A mask. A pretty, polished veneer that hid the messy, ugly truth of what was underneath.
Her taste in men was almost the same—ironically, she hated the things she was supposed to like, but liked the things she was supposed to hate. She hated the boys who leaned too close, who held out flowers or opened doors for her. The polished, sweet, neatly put-together ones who smiled too much and never raised their voices.
She liked sharp edges, cold stares, someone whose hands were rough from work or violence—she didn’t care which. She liked men who would hang out the windows of their cars and scream obscenities at her without a second thought. The lonely ones, too—the ones who’d spot her at the mall or the park and follow her. She liked the thrill of being watched, knowing some shadowy figure was trailing her, six feet back, never closer, never farther.
She liked the danger; of someone who didn’t care if they broke her, who would steal her away without a second thought, terrify her, hurt her, own her.
Sakura didn’t hate Ino.
It was a surprise, really, considering how much she hated girls like her—bright, cheerful, loud in a way that demanded attention without even trying. Ino was the kind of girl who should have made her blood boil, with her perfect hair tied back in that annoyingly flawless ponytail and that easy, confident smile that seemed to scream, Look at me.
And yet, when they met, Sakura couldn’t bring herself to hate her.
Sakura had finally started walking on two legs, and Mebuki had brought her to the park that day, a small grassy clearing filled with toddlers toddling and mothers chatting over bentos.
And then there was Ino.
She was impossible to miss, even at that age.
She moved with confidence that no toddler should have, marching around the park with a toy in hand as though she owned the place. Other children seemed drawn to her naturally, trailing behind her like little ducklings.
Sakura stared at her from the shade of her mother’s presence, not moving, not making a sound.
Ultimately, it was Ino who approached first.
“Hi!” she chirped, her voice carrying that natural, easy confidence that already set her apart. “What’s your name?”
Sakura blinked, unsure how to respond. Her body froze, her infant mind fumbling for something—anything—to say. But before she could even think to open her mouth, Ino leaned forward, her face just inches away, studying her like she was the most fascinating thing in the world.
“You’re really quiet,” Ino said, as though stating a fact. “But that’s okay. I talk enough for both of us! Come on, let's play!”
Before Sakura could react, Ino reached out and grabbed her hand, tugging her forward with surprising strength for someone so small. Sakura stumbled slightly, her unsteady legs struggling to keep up, but Ino didn’t seem to notice—or if she did, she didn’t care. She led her across the grass, her grip firm and unwavering, like she’d already decided Sakura belonged at her side.
Ino was loud, persistent, and far too cheerful, a whirlwind of energy that swept her up before she even had a chance to resist. And yet… she didn’t hate it.
She didn’t hate her.
Ino turned back to look at her, still holding her hand, her ponytail bouncing as she smiled. “Hurry up, slowpoke!” she teased, her laughter ringing out like bells in the summer air.
For the first time, Sakura felt something other than the usual prickly irritation she carried with her everywhere. It wasn’t quite warmth, but it was close. A flicker of something unfamiliar, something she didn’t quite recognize.
And for reasons she couldn’t explain, she didn’t pull her hand away.
“Okāsan.”
Mebuki froze mid-step, her eyes widening as the soft, tentative word left Sakura’s lips. For a moment, she thought she’d imagined it, the sound so small and fragile it could’ve been mistaken for the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Slowly, she turned, her heart leaping into her throat as she stared down at her daughter. “Sakura…” she breathed, her voice trembling with a mixture of shock and joy. “You spoke.”
Sakura stood in the kitchen, her tiny hands clutching the hem of her mother’s skirt as she gazed up with wide, unblinking eyes.
It was just a word, she thought. Small. Meaningless–
“Oh, my little girl,” Mebuki murmured, crouching down to scoop Sakura into her arms. Her grip was gentle but tight, as though she was afraid the moment might slip away if she let go. “You’re growing up so fast.”
Sakura didn’t respond, her face pressed against her mother’s shoulder.
Her chest hurt.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, Sakura’s tiny hands curled against her mother’s sleeve, and she allowed herself to sink into the embrace.
“Say it again,” Mebuki coaxed softly, pulling back just enough to look into her daughter’s face. “Can you say it again for me, Sakura?”
Good, bad, terrifying—all those feelings were crashing into her at once.
Her throat felt tight, but her lips moved anyway, forming the word as if her body understood what her mind couldn’t. “...Okāsan,” she whispered, the sound barely audible, but enough to make Mebuki’s face light up with pure, unrestrained joy.
“Oh, my sweet girl!” Mebuki exclaimed, pulling Sakura into her arms again, holding her so close it almost hurt. “You said it! You said it again!”
Her heart felt like it was too big for her chest, pounding erratically as though it didn’t know how to handle the weight of being loved so openly, so completely.
They love me.
The realization hit her like a punch to the gut, stealing the air from her lungs. These people—this woman—loved her. Not for what she could do, not for how she could be used, but simply because she existed. Because she was their daughter.
And that scared her more than anything.
Because she wanted to grab hold of this warmth, and never let go.
Mebuki pulled back just slightly, brushing Sakura’s hair away from her face, her gaze filled with an affection so genuine it made Sakura’s throat tighten.“You’re so smart. So perfect. You’ll have to teach Otōsan when he comes home, okay? He’s going to be so proud.”
They never wanted Sakura to stop talking.
So she doesn’t.
It starts with little things. Words that seem harmless, easy, slipping from her lips before she has time to think. “Okāsan.” “Otōsan.” “Ino-chan.” They come out soft and hesitant at first, but every time, her parents' faces lit up with that same unrestrained joy, and it keeps Sakura going, like a moth drawn to a flame.
She doesn’t stop talking, not because she needs to, but because it makes them happy.
“Otōsan,” she says one evening as Kizashi leans over her crib, his broad face breaking into a grin that’s too big for the small room. He scoops her up, spinning her gently in the air as Mebuki laughs from the doorway. The sound of their happiness fills the space, warm and bright, and Sakura feels it seep into her bones, like sunlight on a cold day.
“You’re going to be a talker,” Kizashi says with a chuckle, holding her up like a prize. “I can already tell.”
Sakura just stares at him, her tiny fingers curling in his shirt as she lets the moment settle over her. She wants to deny it, to push it all away before it sinks too deep, but she can’t. The truth is, she likes it. The sound of their laughter. The weight of their hands when they hold her. The way they say her name like it means something.
But with every new word, with every laugh and every cheer, the weight in her chest grew heavier.
Every time they laughed, every time they held her close, she felt a certain… Fear. Fear that one day, they would see her for what she truly was. Fear that the moment she stopped talking, stopped being what they wanted her to be, the warmth would vanish, and she’d be left with nothing but the cold emptiness of who she used to be.
So Sakura didn’t stop talking.
Because if she did, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to bear the silence.
Because for the first time in this new life, Sakura feels like she belongs.
Sakura, being an infant, had never had the chance to read a real book in this world. She had assumed, naively, that the words within would be indecipherable, unfamiliar. She was surprised however, when she did manage to snag one of the books from her father’s bookshelf, that the language between her old world and this one were similar enough to be legible.
The words weren’t perfect—there were subtle differences, a stroke here, a missing nuance there—but they were similar. Similar enough for her to read, to understand.
Similar enough to make her breath hitch.
It was like standard Japanese, but… off. Tweaked. As though someone had taken her native tongue and rewritten it with just enough changes to make it alien. She flipped through the pages haphazardly before flipping it over the front, looking at the title of the book.
The History of Ninjutsu.
Sakura tilted her head, brow furrowed.
The word felt strange in her mind, like an itch she couldn’t quite reach. She tilted her head, her infant fingers tracing over the characters as though touching them might reveal their secrets.
Her mind spun, trying to connect dots that didn’t exist. She knew what the word ninja meant—or she thought she did. She remembered masked assassins, shuriken, and exaggerated stories from movies and television in her old life. But ninjutsu..?
What is this?
A soft laugh broke her concentration, and Sakura jolted slightly as Kizashi’s voice rang out from across the room. “What have you got there, Sakura?” he teased, crouching down to her level. “Already raiding Otōsan’s bookshelf, huh?”
Sakura glanced up at her father, her tiny hands still clutching the book as though it might slip away if she let go. Her wide green eyes flicked between the familiar unfamiliar characters on the cover and Kizashi’s smiling face.
Slowly, deliberately, she held the book out to him, her little fingers trembling slightly as she offered it up.
“Read?” she asked, her voice sweetly soft, tilting her head just so.
Kizashi’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, a laugh bubbling out of him before he could help it. “You want me to read this to you?” he asked. “Sakura, you’re a little young for ninja history, don’t you think?”
She didn’t waver, her wide eyes locking onto his with a practiced look of pure innocence. “Please,” she said, drawing the word out just enough to make it sound unbearably endearing.
Kizashi sighed dramatically, his lips quirking into an indulgent grin. “Well, how can I say no to that face?” He sat down beside her, taking the book gently from her hands. “But don’t blame me if this stuff goes over your head, okay? It’s not exactly a bedtime story.”
Sakura watched him intently, her small body leaning against his side as he opened the book and flipped through the pages.
If her theory was right, then this world was starting to make a lot more sense—and a lot less comforting—than she wanted it to.
She doesn't hide the fact that she can read; doesn’t see a point to it. She does, however, not make it obvious she can read way beyond her body’s age. Mebuki and Kizashi are quick to assume Sakura is a prodigy—a reaction she pretty much expected.
Sakura didn’t correct them. Let them think she was a prodigy. Let them believe their daughter was special in a way that fit their world. She wasn’t about to tell them that her grasp of language wasn’t some miraculous leap of toddler development but actually was the result of having lived over twenty years already. That would go over well.
She stuck to simple children’s stories when they were watching, just enough to make her seem impressive and not suspicious.
When Kizashi handed her books with bigger words or more complex sentences, she’d furrow her brows and squint at the pages, pretending to struggle just enough to seem believable.
“Look at her concentrating,” Mebuki would say, her voice soft with pride. “She’s working so hard.”
It wasn’t hard at all.
There were many things that her parents didn’t notice, after all.
Like the way Sakura would linger in her father’s office just a moment too long when no one was looking, her sharp eyes scanning the shelves for something interesting. Or how she’d hold her breath as she plucked a book from the higher shelves, the faint scrape of the spine against wood sounding deafening in the otherwise silent room.
This time, she found it. Tucked away near the back of a row of dusty volumes was a book that stood out—not because of its ornate cover, but because of the strange pull it had on her. Its leather binding was cracked with age, its title barely legible in faded gold lettering. But it didn’t matter. As soon as her fingers brushed the spine, a strange chill ran down her back—like it was warning her not to touch it.
Good thing she was never one for rules.
She waited until the house was quiet, until her parents were asleep, before sneaking into her fathers office and coming back out with the book clutched tightly to her chest. Her tiny footsteps were soft against the wooden floors as she climbed out her bedroom window, blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
The night was still, the air cool against Sakura’s skin as she perched on the low roof. The book lay in her lap, its cracked leather binding catching what little light remained from the now-hidden moon. She ran her fingers over the faded gold lettering, trying to make sense of it, but the title was too worn to decipher.
For a moment, she hesitated, her sharp eyes scanning the darkened landscape as if expecting someone to catch her. Then, with a soft exhale, she opened the book.
She traced her small fingers over the yellowed pages, the ink faded but still legible if she squinted hard enough. The language was different from the one she had become used to; it was older, with looping curves and jagged edges. For a moment, she thought she was looking at man’yōgana[2], but even that was slightly different. Nevertheless, as she stared, the shapes began to align themselves in her mind, forming words she could understand.
Just close enough to lure her in, just far enough to make her uneasy.
The first page bore no title, no author, only a simple inscription:
“For those who seek the truth, tread lightly, for it is not a gift but a burden.”
Her fingers hovered over the page, trembling slightly.
What truth? she wondered, flipping to the next page. The text was denser now, more intricate and almost haunting; long-forgotten symbols and vague, fragmented illustrations of something ancient. There was a name mentioned—a title, more than anything else—but the script blurred whenever she tried to focus on it, as though her mind refused to comprehend it.
And then, buried deep in the text, she saw it. A rabbit. Small and delicate, sketched with almost reverent precision. Its ears were long, its eyes sharp, but there was something unsettling about it. Its outline seemed to blur, shifting under her gaze as though it were alive.
Sakura stared at the illustration, her chest tightening in a way she couldn’t explain. She hated cute things. But rabbits? Rabbits were different. She’d always had a fondness for them.
It was strange, she thought, how things followed her, how pieces of who she used to be clung to her even now.
Rabbits…
You were named for them once.
Sakura snapped her head up. The moonlight was gone, and in front of her stood someone who made her unbearably uncomfortable.
“Hello, Sakura-tan.” Itachi smiled.
She didn’t speak at first, her sharp eyes darting between his face and the book, her mind scrambling to figure out how much he’d seen, how much he knew. Her heart pounded in her chest, but her expression stayed neutral—or as neutral as a toddler’s face could manage.
“You’re out late,” Itachi said softly, his tone more curious than accusatory. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking to the book cradled protectively in her lap. “What are you reading?”
Sakura’s mind raced, searching for an answer that wouldn’t raise suspicion. She finally settled on the safest option: saying nothing. Instead, she pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders and looked at him with wide, innocent eyes, hoping he’d let it go.
He didn’t.
Itachi crouched down to her level, his movements fluid and deliberate, the faint smile still lingering on his lips. “May I sit with you, then?” he asked, his voice gentle, yet carrying a weight that left no room for refusal.
Sakura’s grip on the book tightened. Her mind screamed at her to run, to hide it, to do anything but stay here. And yet, her body betrayed her, frozen in place as her lips parted with a hesitant, trembling answer.
“… Okay.”
For a long time, they sat there.
She looked up at Itachi, at his dark hair, and dark eyes, and for a moment, she let herself pretend. Pretend that this was simple. That he was just a boy, and she was just a girl.
“...Do you like stories, Itachi-kun?”
He tilted his head slightly, his expression thoughtful as he studied her. “Stories?” he repeated, softly. “...Yes, I suppose I do.”
“Can I tell you one?”
Itachi’s faint smile didn’t waver, but something shifted in his eyes. He nodded, a single, deliberate motion. “I’d like that.”
So she did.
About a rabbit, and her king of dogs.