The air in the cemetery was cold—but not bitter. A soft breeze rustled the trees, threading through the gravestones and bringing with it the scent of moist earth and fallen leaves. The kind of silence that only existed in places where time stood still enveloped the grounds.
Menma sat down beneath the shade of a slender tree, not far from the teenager he had just handed a lunch box to. He had started untying the rope and unwrapping the cloth that covered his food when he noticed the boy was still standing there—staring blankly at him, as if lost in a fog of old memories.
"Hm? Don't you want to share a meal with someone? Or are you too embarrassed?" Menma asked lightly, not looking up as he continued his slow unwrapping.
The haziness in the boy's eyes cleared slightly. After a small shuffle and an awkward scratch of his neck, he sat down beside Menma, his voice soft, nearly drowned out by the wind.
"Um… thank you. I didn't think anyone would offer to share lunch with me here. I haven't eaten beside my parents in a long time…"
At that, Menma paused.
The rustle of grass and the creak of wind-tossed trees filled the silence between them.
He slowly turned to glance at the two gravestones standing next to the boy. The names weren't ones he recognized, but from the tenderness in the boy's voice and the ache in his aura, he didn't need to guess. They were his parents.
"You must have loved them a lot, didn't you?" Menma asked.
The boy blinked, as though waking from a dream. His expression softened, and the distant shine of tears welled up in his eyes.
"My father… he was the person I admired most. I always wanted to be like him. And my mother…" His voice faltered. "She always smiled at me. She made me believe I could take the next step no matter how scared I was."
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"But after the night two years ago… all of that was gone. Her smile… at the moment she died… it's the only memory I still have."
Tears began to stream down his cheeks. Quietly at first, but they soon fell like rain. Menma's expression didn't change. He simply closed his lunch box again, set it to the side, and gently moved forward.
Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around the crying boy.
The boy stiffened, surprised—but he didn't pull away. And as the weight of his grief pressed down on him, he surrendered, burying his face in the shoulder of someone years younger, crying like a child who had finally found someone willing to listen.
Menma didn't say a word. He simply held him, steady and warm.
He thought, as the boy cried, about the mother he had never known, and the father whose identity he still didn't understand. Maybe… maybe they were buried here too. Maybe one day he could come back, search the stones for an Uzumaki name from around the same date. Maybe, then, he could finally learn who he really was.
While one boy wept in his grief and another dreamed of answers, Snow sat alert in Menma's lap, her white ears twitching. Her tail flicked with unease. Something was watching them—lurking in the treeline beyond. But she wouldn't leave her big cat's side. He might look fine, but she knew better. Sometimes he became something else. A dog. A monster. She hated when that happened. She would stay close, just in case.
An hour passed like a single breath.
When the boy finally calmed down, Menma gave his head a reassuring pat, and then reached for his lunch again. Snow, who had patiently waited, meowed in approval.
Menma opened his food box and gently placed it down, making sure Snow had access to her portion of fish and meat. The boy mimicked him, untying his cloth with slower hands and blinking in confusion when he saw the strange contents inside.
"What… is this?" the boy asked, eyeing the unfamiliar layered bread and the rolled flatbread with sauce.
Menma simply picked up the Macu and took a bite.
The boy followed his example—and the moment the food touched his tongue, he jumped up with wide eyes.
"This is DELICIOUS!"
His voice echoed across the quiet cemetery.
Both Menma and Snow choked mid-bite.
Menma gave the boy a look that said you idiot, while Snow squinted at him like a disappointed mother. If this was a food manga, Menma was sure the boy's clothes would've exploded right off by now.
Unaware of their reactions, the boy kept eating with comically exaggerated delight, scarfing down food like someone starved for months.
Menma sighed. Note to self: introduce new food slowly. Otherwise, this village is not ready.
What Menma didn't know was that at that very moment, inside the Konoha negotiation conference room, five respected leaders—including the Third Hokage—were devouring their Menburgers and Macu with the same embarrassing passion, causing the Cloud envoys to glance at each other in suspicion. Was this… some new kind of psychological warfare?
Back in the cemetery, the boy finished eating and rubbed his stomach, burping softly.
"Thanks for… burp… the food. That was amazing. Did your parents make this?"
Menma, still not entirely full, shook his head.
"No. I made it myself."
The boy blinked again. "Wait, really?"
Menma nodded, then added casually, "I'm an orphan. I never knew my parents. I only know my mother's last name."
He hesitated, then glanced up at the sky.
"I do have a big brother who looks after me. And his girlfriend too—they love me a lot. But even so, I'm… rootless. Like a weed carried by the wind. I don't have a place to call home. Not truly."
The boy's face fell. He hadn't expected someone so young to carry such sadness in his heart.
He slowly reached into the old bag at his side and pulled out a weathered envelope.
"This… is a letter my father left me," he said quietly. "I found it after… after they died. But I haven't opened it in two years."
He stared down at it, shaking slightly.
"I thought… if I opened it, it would mean they're truly gone. That they'll never come back. I didn't want that. Even if it's just me fooling myself, pretending they're still here—it hurts less that way."
Menma looked at him in silence, then spoke gently.
"Maybe you're right. Sometimes, pretending helps. But do you really think your mother… would want her son to hide behind lies? To stay frozen in place?"
The boy didn't answer.
Menma rose, brushing the grass from his pants.
"I envy you," he said softly. "You had them. You knew them. You knew they loved you."
He turned slightly, his voice dropping.
"I don't know anything. Not their names. Not even if they ever loved me. No letter. No gift. No final words. Just pain… and silence."
He looked back at the boy, eyes steady.
"But that letter in your hands—that's proof. Proof that even when they were facing death, their first thought was of you. That's love, carved into paper."
He picked up Snow and his empty lunch box.
"Whether you read it or not is up to you. But… if I were you, I'd cherish it. It's the kind of love some of us will never have."
And with that, he left.
Snow looked back once, then turned forward again. They had food boxes to collect, ingredients to buy. Tomorrow, he was planning something new—something glorious. Mizza, Uzufries, four flavors. A feast worthy of legends. Let the world tremble before the letter M!
"Muhahaha," he whispered.
Behind him, the teenager—Iruka—stared at the letter in his hands. His fingers trembled.
(It's a sign they loved you… that the first thing they thought of when facing death… was you.)
His breath caught.
He remembered his mother's last smile. His father's warm eyes. Their bodies, wrapped in white sheets. The dirt falling over their graves. The countless days he stood in the rain, asking why they left him.
He carefully opened the envelope.
The paper inside was slightly crumpled, but the handwriting was unmistakably his father's.
---
My Dearest Son, Iruka,
If you're reading this, it means life has taken a turn I prayed it wouldn't. Writing this letter… it's the hardest thing I've ever done—besides asking your mother to marry me.
Iruka smiled faintly.
Not because I fear what lies ahead, but because there's still so much I wanted to share with you. To teach you. To see with you.
From the first time I held you in my arms, I knew you were special. Not because you were the strongest—but because there was a light in your eyes. A quiet determination. Especially when you screamed for your mother's milk.
Iruka's vision blurred. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and kept reading.
I watched you stumble and rise. Watched you chase your dreams even when they seemed impossible. Like trying to become a jonin at twelve. Your courage has always left me speechless.
Son… the world won't always be kind. You'll be told you're not enough. You'll fail. But listen to me now:
You. Are. Enough.
You always have been.
Your value isn't in trophies or titles. It's in your heart. In how you get back up. In how you treat others.
Even if the world forgets you, I never will.
Whether you become Hokage or a humble teacher, my support will never change. Follow your path—with pride and kindness.
And it's okay to be afraid. I've been afraid too. But fear doesn't mean weakness. It means you still have something precious to protect.
Even if I'm gone, I'll be with you. In your heartbeat. In your choices. In the stars above, where one of them will always be me—watching over you.
Be kind. Be strong. Be yourself.
With all my love,
Dad.
And your always-beautiful mom by his side.
---
Iruka broke.
He collapsed forward, cradling the letter, sobbing at the foot of their graves.
It rained.
Somewhere in the distance, a figure hidden in the trees watched him silently, then turned to gaze in the direction Menma had gone.
The most broken boy in the village had just healed someone else… with a few words and a cold lunch.
The figure shook his head.
This world was strange indeed.
---