October 10th, Konoha
Menma woke earlier than usual that morning, driven by an unshakable sense of purpose. The sun had barely kissed the rooftops with its pale golden hue when he stepped into the shower, letting the warm water run over his shoulders and wash away the weight of yesterday. After drying off, he strapped on his training weights without hesitation, their familiar heaviness grounding him in the present. Then, just as he did every morning, he made his way to the yard and sat in silent meditation, allowing his chakra to settle and his breathing to synchronize with the soft rhythm of the world.
As if drawn by the stillness, Snow descended the stairs with slow, tired steps, mewing softly. She rubbed her face against his leg before stretching upward, clearly asking for a lift. Menma smiled warmly and gently picked her up, placing her atop his head—her throne, as they both had come to see it. She curled there like a crown of white fur, nestling into his red hair, her body rising and falling with his every breath. It seemed she hadn't slept well the night before. Perhaps she, too, had sensed the tension threaded in the air.
With Snow settled, Menma entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, beginning the dance he'd rehearsed in his mind the night before. He moved with a practiced grace, checking the dough that had been left to ferment overnight. His eyes lit up the moment he saw its soft, well-risen surface. It was perfect.
With silent focus, he prepared the base for what would later be called Mizza—a dish born not just from hunger, but from his wish to feed the people he cherished something entirely his own. He measured ingredients by feel, the kind of instinct that could only come from love. His hands worked quickly, shaping the dough and layering flavors with tender care.
Snow, alert despite her drowsiness, kept a diligent eye on the oven and pots. Whenever something neared readiness—whether it needed flipping, cooling, or seasoning—she gave a quick flick of her tail or a light paw tap to alert him. Like a tiny chef's assistant, her help was unspoken but precise. It was their usual routine, and by now they didn't need words to understand each other.
By the time the last Mizza was cooling on the rack and the Uzufries were crisped to perfection, the noon sun had begun to climb higher in the sky. Menma moved through the kitchen like a shadow, quiet but determined. He carefully arranged each food box with the same reverence one might offer to an offering at a shrine. In every container, along with the steaming food, he placed a small handmade gift:
A pipe cleaner toy for Hiruzen, a green bandage wrap for Guy, a silent whistle for Phantom, a custom egg-cracker for Raven, a scrub hat for the granny Biwako, a sleek new mask for Kakashi, and finally—a necklace, simple but beautiful, for Yoruusagi to wear.
Sadly, the remaining dough hadn't been enough to make a proper birthday cake. He sighed, brushing flour off his apron, but smiled nonetheless. "Next time," he whispered. "We'll have a cake big enough for everyone."
After a final check to ensure everything was packed and labeled properly, Menma gathered the boxes, tied them together carefully with cloth wraps, and headed out, his spirit light with anticipation.
Snow leapt gracefully onto his shoulder and curled her tail around his neck, resting her chin just beneath his ear. Feeling her warmth and trust, Menma's steps grew livelier, his mood rising like the morning sun.
He first returned to the place he had met Guy the day before and found him standing with Ebisui. The two were locked in what could only be described as a dramatic silent showdown of youthful passion and bureaucratic order.
Menma approached with a grin and handed the lunch box marked with Ebisui's name. The man's eyes lit up, and Guy's widened in envy.
Then, with a matching grin to Guy's bright expression, Menma pulled out another box. "For you, Teacher Guy. Don't cry like last time."
And before either could react further, he disappeared into the bustling street like a flame in the wind, laughing, with Snow purring smugly on his shoulder.
At the hospital, Biwako's room was empty. He handed her box and the special one prepared for the nurses to the gathered staff, who, as always, were more ferocious than any tiger. They rewarded him with pinched cheeks and an overwhelming barrage of affection, causing Menma to flee, red-faced and giggling, using his next deliveries as an excuse to escape.
As he approached the Hokage building, Snow's gaze suddenly sharpened. Her ears twitched. Her golden eyes locked on a distant rooftop, but Menma didn't notice her stiffness. Reaching the conference room doors, Menma took a single lunch box out from his stack and approached the two door guards—Phantom and Raven—who, as always, stood motionless, masks hiding their expressions. He handed the stack to them, catching the faint sound of one of them swallowing, a barely audible gulp that spoke louder than words. It made him smile softly.
With a quiet gesture of his hand—casual yet meaningful—he invited them to come find him later that evening, if they had the freedom. It wasn't a command, nor even a suggestion, just an unspoken offer. A small connection to say: I see you. I haven't forgotten you.
He then turned away, the weight of the remaining food box pulling gently at his arms, and began to walk down the steps of the Hokage building. He didn't notice, in that moment, how Snow was staring unwaveringly at a distant rooftop, her eyes locked on something—or someone—hidden in the haze of the midday sun.
Walking away from the Hokage building, Menma was about to decide whether to visit the cemetery again or look for a new quiet place to rest when a conversation caught his attention.
Passerby A:
"Did you hear? Today, the peace agreement is going to be signed at young master Namikaze's house—during his birthday party!"
The name struck him like a kunai to the chest. Namikaze…? His pace slowed.
The words hung in the air, heavy and strange. Could they be talking about the Fourth Hokage's child? And—today was his birthday?
His curiosity piqued, Menma stepped toward the two men chatting in front of a tea shop, their hands loosely wrapped around warm porcelain cups.
"Um, excuse me," he asked politely, "could you tell me who this young master Namikaze is? Is he the son of the Fourth Hokage?"
His sudden appearance startled them at first. A red-haired boy asking about the most well-known family in the village—it wasn't a question they expected. But once the surprise passed, one of the men chuckled and answered without hesitation, as though reciting common knowledge.
"That's right. The Fourth Hokage's son—born exactly two years ago, the very same night his parents died. Poor kid… Losing both of them the moment he came into the world. Must be hard growing up without a family, even if the whole village adores him now. All of that—" he sneered slightly, "because of that demon fox. And the boy who holds it. Honestly, I wish they'd both just disappear."
Menma barely heard the last part. His mind had already latched onto something else—Born the same day? Two years ago? The night the Fourth Hokage died…
No. It couldn't be.
Trying to keep calm, he pushed forward with another question, his voice a little shaky despite himself.
"Um… was there anyone else born that day? Maybe… twins? Or another child? Could it be possible someone else shared that birthday?"
Even as the words left his mouth, he wanted to slap himself. What kind of ridiculous question is that? But he had to ask.
The man raised an eyebrow, thrown off by the odd line of inquiry.
"Huh? That's a weird question to ask, kid."
Menma laughed it off with a small, embarrassed smile, hoping to defuse the awkwardness. The man seemed to think it was just childish curiosity and went on.
"Well… now that you mention it, I think there was another boy. I remember seeing Lord Third holding two babies after the attack—could be the other one was that cursed brat. My memory's fuzzy though. What do you think, pal?"
He turned to his friend for confirmation, but the other man only shrugged. "Not sure. There might've been. That whole night was chaos."
They turned back toward Menma to answer more clearly—but the boy was gone.
Puzzled, they looked around, confused by how quietly he'd slipped away. Shrugging it off, they returned to their gossip about the peace talks, never realizing what kind of storm they had just set into motion.
Not far away, in the shadow of a narrow alley, Menma leaned against the cold stone wall, his breath ragged.
"No way... No freaking way that's the truth…"
His heart pounded as the pieces began to click together, not in clarity—but in horror.
"My father… He's supposed to be a fugitive! A traitor! My mother was supposed to be someone weak… a tool… someone discarded by the powerful… That's what I was told... I was never meant to be... him. Not the Fourth's child. Not the most honored name in the whole damn village!"
His breathing grew harsher, heavier, bordering on hyperventilation. Deep inside the sharp corridors of his mind, memories and assumptions clashed and twisted violently. Nothing made sense—and everything made too much sense.
And Snow… Snow could sense it. The boy's chakra was rising unnaturally. The air around him was growing hot, static with rage. Red, smoke-like trails of chakra began slipping out from his body like threads of fire. She meowed again and again—but got no response.
He couldn't hear her.
She watched her big cat fall again. Not into sadness—but into rage.
So she acted.
For the first time ever, she bit him—his ear, sharp and sudden.
"Ah—!"
The pain snapped him out of his spiraling thoughts. He flinched and turned his head, meeting Snow's anxious eyes. Her fur was puffed, tail twitching anxiously as she pawed at his collar.
She wanted him to leave. Now.
Gasping, blinking, Menma clutched the bite mark and took a deep breath. "The cemetery... I'll go there."
He stood upright with a renewed spark in his gaze, his mind racing toward the only path that might offer truth.
"If… if I can find a grave—someone with the Uzumaki name, who died two years ago—that'll be it. That'll prove it."
He ran, Snow leaping gracefully back onto his shoulder. As he turned the corner, he abandoned his untouched lunch box on a table outside a restaurant—no appetite left in him. Snow had snacks in his pouch. That would be enough.
A second later, after the boy vanished from view, a cloaked figure appeared beside the table. A black robe. A mask. Silent.
The stranger picked up the food box, holding it gently… and disappeared.
He had not come for food.
He had come to follow the child who, against every prophecy and every expectation, now stood on the edge of awakening a truth more dangerous than any war.
Menma rushed to the cemetery. His feet moved fast, guided more by instinct than thought, cutting through the village's hushed afternoon as if he was chasing something that had already started slipping through his fingers. The weight of that stray conversation still rang in his ears like an echo from a bell he didn't ask to ring. If there was even a sliver of truth in what those men had said… he had to see it for himself.
Upon reaching the cemetery gates, he stopped briefly. The fading gold of the sun was now giving way to hues of copper and bruised indigo, casting long shadows across the gravestones. The air smelled of wet grass and old stone, filled with the quiet melancholy that only a resting ground for the dead could have. But Menma wasn't afraid. If anything, this place was the only one that felt honest right now.
He walked in with quick, determined steps and scanned the area until his eyes caught the large wooden board standing near the entrance—a carved map of the cemetery. Dozens of small grids marked the resting places of shinobi, civilians, honored clans, and even unmarked graves. His eyes roamed the diagram hungrily until he found the oldest section, likely where he would find what he was looking for. The Uzumaki... if there was even one, that is.
He started walking, stone by stone, row by row. The soft crunch of dried leaves beneath his sandals accompanied the whisper of wind, threading around the standing markers like ghostly fingers. His eyes scanned the headstones, reading each name, date, and inscription with growing urgency.
Every time he saw October 10th carved into the stone, he stopped. A flicker of hope rose in his chest—only to be extinguished moments later by names he didn't recognize. He searched the stones like a child digging through a puzzle box, convinced that one final piece would make the whole picture make sense.
Seconds became minutes. Minutes melted into hours.
He passed memorial stones of fallen ANBU. Graves adorned with offerings from loved ones. He read names of people whose lives he would never know but somehow envied—because someone had remembered them enough to leave flowers. But nowhere, not in the names nor in the cracks of stone or carved epitaphs, did he find a single one bearing the name "Uzumaki" with a matching death date.
He felt his breath tighten. His feet dragged. His hands—once clasped together in hope—fell to his sides.
And then, at the very end of the last row, when there was nothing left to see, no names left to read, no markers left unturned, he stopped. The silence pressed into his ears like heavy cloth. The wind, once gentle, had gone still, and with it, his heart slowed as though he was standing at the edge of the world. There was nothing. No proof. No name. No past.
He slowly sank to his knees. His legs didn't resist. They were tired—just like his heart.
He sat on the damp grass, arms limp, staring blankly at the rows of people who had found their place in this world... even if it was in the soil. He, in contrast, was neither above nor below it—just floating. A drifting soul in a place meant for the still.
The sun had already dipped beyond the horizon. The sky overhead darkened into twilight, and long shadows cloaked the cemetery in a curtain of muted blue and gray. The chill in the air crept into his bones, but he barely felt it. He sat motionless, the empty wind brushing past his face, carrying with it the smell of the earth and old grief.
His lips trembled. Not from the cold, but from something much older, something hidden deep. He wanted to cry—but the tears refused to fall. As if even they were lost, confused by a boy who no longer knew what to believe in.
"Just who am I?" The question rose in him like a tide. It was supposed to be a whisper, but it roared inside his chest.
The ground felt heavier beneath him, the loneliness a solid thing pressing down. His breathing became uneven, short and rapid. Despair tasted like iron on his tongue.
Was he truly just a mistake? A leftover? A weapon forged and forgotten?
He looked up at the sky. A few early stars had begun to blink into view. But they didn't comfort him. Not like before. Not like they used to when he thought he was at least someone's boy, even if that someone had fallen from grace.
His hands clenched into fists. Slowly, as if responding to the silent ache in his spirit, the red mist—smoky and soft—began to curl out of his back like the fingers of something asleep too long. The chakra was reacting again to the turmoil inside him, creeping outward in fine threads, almost invisible in the low light, but potent.
Snow, who had been sitting quietly against his shoulder all this time, sensed it instantly. She let out a low, concerned mewl, her tail flicking sharply. She jumped down, her paws silent on the grass, and padded to face him directly. Her violet eyes stared into his, concerned, unblinking.
And then, with careful tenderness, she leaned forward and licked his cheek, catching the tear that had finally broken loose and begun to fall.
Menma turned to look at her, eyes wide and dazed. It was the only warmth he'd felt since he fell to his knees.
Snow meowed again and then turned, her tail swishing. She began walking with purpose, only to stop a few steps ahead and turn her head back toward him. She flicked her tail—once, twice—urging him.
Menma blinked, his breath catching in his throat. Slowly, shakily, he got to his feet, following her with the last of his strength. Snow led him toward a section of the cemetery that hadn't been marked on the public map. A small corner at the very edge, shrouded by trees, closed and nearly hidden by overgrown weeds and untrimmed hedges over the fences surrounding the place.
A place untouched by his footsteps... and unmarked by the black X in his mind map.
His heartbeat quickened.
Without realizing it, his hands began to tremble.
Snow walked a few steps ahead, her white fur glowing faintly under the dim moonlight, leading him deeper into the shadows of the dead like a burning arrow flying against the darkest night.
And Menma followed—drawn by something he didn't yet understand.
But was about to.
....