Konoha, October 9th – Early Morning, Hatake Mansion
The dawn had just brushed its golden fingers across the rooftops of Konoha, bathing the Hidden Leaf in soft amber light. Dew clung to leaves and tiles, the aftermath of the gentle drizzle from the night before. The air was pristine—crisp yet kind—carrying with it the tranquil scent of damp earth and early autumn leaves. There was a delicate hush to the village, the kind that felt sacred, like the world was collectively holding its breath before the day truly began.
In the heart of the quiet, the Hatake mansion stood large and pristine, its wide halls and polished floors free of pests—thanks to a rather unfortunate incident that had left an unlucky cockroach flattened at the foot of a certain someone's bed. Despite its cleanliness and size, the mansion was uncharacteristically still this morning. Absent was the sizzle of oil, the rhythm of knife against chopping board, and the sweet aroma of breakfast cooking.
It was the kind of silence that waited to be broken by laughter, by joy—but today, it waited in vain.
Kakashi, ever the dutiful shinobi, had already left. Today, he stood among the elite ranks of Konoha's leadership, gathered to greet the arriving Cloud envoys. A necessary display of strength, unity, and subtle hospitality. There would be no lazy lounging or half-hearted excuses—not when politics and power danced so closely.
Left behind, Menma had woken up in his usual way, unhurried and calm. He took a brief shower, strapped on his weighted gear, and stepped down the familiar, creaking stairs. The wood beneath his feet groaned dramatically, threatening to shatter with each step—but, as always, it held. The floor of the Hatake mansion had survived many storms. A few more wouldn't hurt.
Outside, in the training yard, a peculiar but familiar structure waited: a sharp, conical rock with a flat stone placed beside it. Menma approached it with the quiet reverence of someone performing a sacred ritual. With a steady hand and a breath held, he balanced the flat stone delicately atop the cone. Then, slowly, using nothing but the strength and control of his own body, he elevated himself onto the platform—like a human crane, muscle by muscle—until he sat cross-legged at the pinnacle, perfectly still.
Every twitch, every breath, had to be calculated. The balance was so delicate that the slightest error would send him tumbling in a painful reminder that nature did not forgive carelessness. Yet, Menma held it. His breathing slowed. His mind emptied.
As chakra began to circulate through his limbs in perfect, meditative rhythm, the boy who once knew chaos, found clarity.
Half an hour passed before he opened his eyes, as if waking from a dream. With feline grace, he leapt down, landing with a soft thud and a subtle smile. Unfortunately, no one had seen the beauty of the moment—no one except for a weary, slightly anxious cat named Snow, who had been watching from the shadows with half-lidded eyes and a tail flicking with discontent.
Cracking his joints with a satisfied stretch, Menma's spine let out a symphony of pops. He felt alive. Awake. Powerful.
"I swear," he murmured to Snow, who meowed in indifference, "this body is a gift."
Scooping her up gently, he padded toward the kitchen. There was something pure about this morning that stirred a desire in him—a desire to cook.
After opening the windows to let in the golden light and cool air, he stood for a moment in the beam of sunlight like a cat warming itself. The sensation was simple, but not meaningless. He savored it.
Then, moving with purpose, he opened the fridge and began to pull out the ingredients he'd bought yesterday, after bidding farewell to Yoruusagi. It had been a while since he had cooked for himself—really cooked—not just boiled water or made a quick snack. Today felt like a day for nourishment of the soul.
He washed and chopped vegetables, marinated meats, and hummed under his breath as he played with Snow between tasks. He cooked tacos, burgers, and even Ghormeh Sabzi—a dish from a world long gone but fondly remembered. The spices filled the house with warmth and memories. Hours passed, the sounds of simmering and sizzling marking time better than any clock.
Four hours later, the kitchen sparkled. Nine carefully packed lunch boxes sat on the counter, each wrapped in a different-colored cloth. Menma washed his hands, gave Snow a gentle pat, and slung the backpack of lunches over his shoulder. Snow, of course, claimed her rightful place on his head.
Today wasn't about training or fighting or surviving. Today, he simply wanted to give. To offer thanks to those who had guided, guarded, or just stood by him.
As he stepped into the village center, chaos met him. People rushed about like leaves in a storm—half of them eating on the go, others shouting over one another. Menma found a quiet corner and set Snow down, patting her tiny head to calm her. Then, closing his eyes, he reached out with his senses.
Boom.
A storm of chakra signatures hit him like a tsunami—too many at once. It felt like being dropped into a rock concert after meditating in the rain. His eyebrows twitched. No matter how many times he did this, the sheer noise of so many souls was overwhelming.
Still, he focused.
One by one, he filtered them out—shopkeepers, children, stray cats, loud chakra from over-caffeinated jonin. And then... there they were. Five of the people he sought were grouped together in one area. Another, off near the main street.
First stop: the loner. A man on the move.
Menma opened his eyes, offered a small nod to Snow, and took off—darting past vendors and patrons, his eyes set on the path ahead.
When he finally reached the street, he slowed. Teacher Guy was there, in full Green Beast mode, passionately explaining something to another man. Menma didn't even need to hear it. He knew. It was the "Flames of Youth" speech again.
Suppressing a laugh, he approached and cleared his throat dramatically.
"Ahem. Teacher Guy, aren't you supposed to be recharging? So we can burn even brighter next time we clash?"
Guy turned around, startled—but when he saw Menma, his face exploded into a smile.
"Ah! Little Menma! You shine as ever! No, today the duty of a Leaf shinobi calls! But worry not, by the time your rest is over, I shall be so ready we will put the sun itself to shame! And now that you're here—let me introduce you!"
He gestured to the man beside him—a tall, slim ninja with rounded sunglasses, just shy of jonin chakra levels.
"This is Ebisui! A man of order and discipline! I was just sharing with him how the heart's flame can melt even the hardest steel!"
Menma blinked. Burn in front of strangers? Show them his... flames? If he did, the poor man might never recover.
Instead, he smiled.
"Well... Teacher Guy, maybe burning now isn't the best idea. But maybe... you can burn like a comet on your mission. But to do that, you'll need... this."
He placed his backpack down and dramatically pulled out a beautifully wrapped box.
"A special lunch box made by Menma, to be eaten alone. Every bite. No leftovers. Understood?"
Guy was already sobbing before Menma had finished. "A lunch box... from you? I—thank you! Thank you!"
With a bright smile, Menma gave a playful salute, hoisted his bag and Snow, and vanished into the crowd before Guy could formulate a thank-you speech.
Guy clutched the lunch box like it was sacred. "Don't worry," he whispered, "even if it's awful, I'll eat it all. Thank you, Menma."
Beside him, Ebisui was watching in awe. "Who... was that? I don't recognize him. And that hair—it was red, wasn't it? Could he be... from that clan? Is he the... the jinchuriki?"
But Guy said nothing. Instead, he moved to a bench and opened the box with reverence.
First, the wrapping. Then, a delicate bow holding the chopsticks. Then, finally—the lid.
He expected food. He didn't expect a masterpiece.
Inside was rice, a curry-like stew, a small bottle of water... and two strange items. One was a double-layered bread stuffed to bursting.
Menburger?
The second was flatter, half-wrapped in paper, drenched in red sauce.
Macu?
What were these names? Why had he never heard of them? Were they forbidden foods from another world?
Guy reached for the Macu like it was a scroll containing ancient secrets and took a tentative bite.
Silence.
Ebisui leaned in. "Well? Is it good? Bad? What is it?!"
Before he could reach over, Guy shot into the air like a rocket.
"OH MY YOUTHFUL FIRE! THIS IS DIVINE! I SHALL REMAIN YOUR TEACHER FOREVER, MENMA!"
Ebisui, stunned, reached for the Macu—but Guy jumped back with lightning speed.
"No! Menma said it's mine! Mine alone!"
"Guy, don't be selfish! Let me taste it!"
"No! I will flee to the ends of the world before I share even a single bite!"
And just like that, Konoha's streets bore witness to a most ridiculous chase: Guy leaping through the village like a green flash, lunch box in hand, mouth full of Macu, and Ebisui hot on his heels, shouting for a taste.
For the people of Konoha, it was just another Monday.
---
After parting ways with the ever-energetic Guy—who was likely halfway through a high-speed chase with a hungry Ebisui by now—Menma made his way toward Konoha Hospital. The streets were still buzzing with life, filled with the soft noise of laughter, footsteps, and merchants calling out their morning specials. Konoha was unusually radiant today. The hopeful whispers of peace, no matter how delicate, had stirred the hearts of the people.
The very idea that war might finally come to an end—even momentarily—seemed to light a spark in the hearts of children and the elderly alike. Along the way, Menma overheard a group of kids chatting excitedly near a food stall, discussing the exotic land of the Lightning Country.
"I wanna see the Thunder Plains!"
"My dad says they've got rice bowls with raw eel and spicy broth!"
"I wanna be the first one to bring back a storm stone!"
Menma smiled faintly. It was pure. Too pure.
But as he walked past them, something weighed on his chest. Their excitement was genuine—untainted. And yet, Menma had stood in the presence of the Cloud envoys just the day before, when they arrived at the village gate. He had felt their auras, scanned their emotions, and there was no warmth in their intent—only cold calculation, barely veiled hostility.
What kind of envoy arrives with a heart so heavy in malice?
Their chakra signatures hadn't quivered with the grace of peace. Instead, they throbbed like storm clouds holding back lightning. This "peace" was most likely a prelude—an act performed on the world stage while sharpening a blade behind the curtain.
Still, Menma let those thoughts drift from his mind for now. His steps brought him to the hospital entrance, where he greeted the staff with a courteous nod. In the reception area, he handed over one of his remaining lunch boxes to a kind nurse.
"Please give this to Granny Biwako when she's out of surgery. It's from Menma," he said with a bright smile. "Make sure she eats all of it—or I'll make her run laps with Teacher Guy."
The nurse chuckled and promised she would. With a satisfied nod, Menma turned on his heel and walked out again. Only one stop remained.
---
The Hokage building loomed ahead—elegant, solid, and proud. It stood as the center of both leadership and legacy in Konoha. Walking through the gates and climbing the staircase to the uppermost level, Menma didn't rush. He allowed his senses to flow, feeling the presence of chakra flowing around him. Every shinobi in the building radiated a distinct aura—professional, steady. Yet beneath the formality, there was tension. The kind of tension that tightened the air, sharp as a kunai's edge.
When he reached the door to the conference room, he paused. Two ANBU stood like statues at the threshold—one with a long, black cloak, and the other with the sharp posture of a hawk ready to dive. Their masks were emotionless, but their chakra signatures were unmistakable.
Shisui and Itachi.
They had been watching over him for months—sometimes from afar, sometimes side-by-side during training.
Menma smiled and stepped forward.
He knew they couldn't speak. That wasn't their role. So he simply placed his backpack down gently in front of them. His movements were quiet, respectful—almost ceremonial. Then, one by one, he pulled out the lunch boxes.
"This is for you both," he said quietly, placing two containers into their hands. "The rest... please give them to Teacher Yoruusagi, Brother Kakashi, A... and Lord Third. Each one was made with care. I wanted to say thank you—to all of you—for watching over me, even when I didn't deserve it."
His voice was honest. Raw.
"You've done more than I can ever repay, so... this is what I can do right now. Please eat it all, even if it's not delicious." He bowed slightly, the fabric of his shirt crinkling around his heavy weights. "Thank you. I won't bother you longer. Goodbye, Brother Phantom. Goodbye, Brother Raven."
And just like that, he turned and walked away, his boots soft against the polished floor.
Behind their masks, Shisui and Itachi exchanged a brief glance. His visit had been unexpected—his words even more so.
The bag sat between them now, filled with food boxes wrapped like gifts. They carried the scent of home and heart—something that seemed strangely foreign inside the walls of power and politics.
They didn't open the boxes. Not yet. They placed them gently in a cool corner, letting the aroma fill the room like a memory waiting to be shared.
---
Outside, Menma squinted against the sunlight and exhaled. That was the last delivery.
He had spent the morning giving to others—offering warmth in the form of food and gratitude. But now, it was time for himself. Snow pawed at his head, making him laugh.
"Alright, alright. I'm hungry too."
He began wandering the streets, searching for a place quiet enough to eat. But the entire village was alive today—bustling with anticipation. Crowds were everywhere. Kids shouting, vendors laughing, patrols moving. It was a festival without a name. Hope was contagious.
Frustrated and growing hungrier by the minute, he finally stopped using his eyes and used his senses instead. He extended his chakra outward, feeling for space—not life. Somewhere still. Somewhere untouched.
He found it.
And when he reached it, his expression twisted in a mix of humor and resignation.
The cemetery.
Of course.
Only a place filled with the departed would be quiet on a day like this. Menma glanced around. Though "empty" wasn't quite right—there were visitors walking softly between graves, whispering prayers and memories to the stones. Loss didn't take breaks for diplomacy.
He walked further in, weaving through the monuments until he found a more secluded corner. There, beneath the gentle rustling of trees, stood a teenager—alone between two gravestones. His hands were tucked in his pockets, his head slightly bowed. His entire aura bled confusion and grief.
He was drowning in silence, and the silence didn't care.
Menma hesitated. He wasn't here to pry. But the weight in that boy's soul felt too heavy for a single set of shoulders. He looked at the last two lunch boxes in his hands.
Alright. One more. Just one more.
He approached, his footsteps soft against the grass. Snow watched from his shoulder, tail swishing quietly. Her presence, as always, made him braver.
"Looks like you didn't bring lunch," Menma said gently, his voice low, like a breeze rather than a question.
The boy turned, startled.
Menma smiled, lifting one of the boxes slightly. "Lucky for you, I brought extra."
He walked forward and sat beside the graves without asking. The world was loud today—but this corner, this moment, was theirs.
Let the fate cook.
One lunch at a time.
---