The world came back in pieces.
A ceiling, pale and cracked, washed in dim yellow light. The slow, rhythmic beep of a heart monitor. The cold drag of an IV needle taped to my wrist.
The air smelled like bleach and old smoke.
For a while, I didn't move.
Not because I was afraid — I think I'd already passed that. It was more like my body didn't know what to do with itself now that it had nothing to hold onto.
My fingers curled slowly into the stiff sheets beneath me.
Not a dream.
Not this time.
I turned my head.
Sasuke lay in the bed beside mine, a thin white curtain half-drawn between us. But I could still see him — curled up, back to me, knees pulled tight to his chest beneath the blanket. He wasn't asleep. His eyes were open, staring at the wall like he was waiting for it to speak.
His whole body was trembling, just barely. Like a string pulled too tight.
I wanted to say something.
Anything.
But the words caught in my throat like glass. What could I say? That it was okay? That we were safe? That I understood?
None of it would matter.
Still, I tried.
"Sasuke—"
He flinched.
Both hands shot up to his ears, covering them hard. He curled tighter, like my voice had hurt him worse than any wound.
I froze.
The silence between us thickened — dense, choking. It pressed on my chest like a weight.
We weren't crying.
We didn't scream.
There was just this—this nothingness between us. Cold. Loud.
Then, after what felt like years, his voice broke the silence.
"I hate him."
It came out rough. Small. Like it was the only thing he'd managed to say since it happened.
I didn't respond.
He turned slightly — just enough for me to see the edge of his face. His eyes were red, but dry.
"I'm gonna kill him," Sasuke whispered.
I gripped the sheets with both hands.
Tight.
Tighter.
Until I felt the threads tear beneath my nails.
I wanted to tell him no. That this wasn't the way. That Itachi hadn't—
But the words wouldn't come.
Because deep down, some part of me wasn't sure I believed them either.
He left us.
He chose to leave us.
Sasuke didn't speak again after that.
He turned his face back toward the wall.
I didn't try again.
We stayed like that until the light above us dimmed to orange. Until the sound of footsteps came down the hall.
I don't know how long we lay there in silence after Sasuke's voice faded into the walls.
It could've been minutes. Could've been hours.
I didn't sleep. I don't think Sasuke did either. His breathing was too shallow. Too sharp. He was awake, curled in on himself like the world had touched him and he'd decided to disappear.
I didn't try again.
I just stared at the ceiling until I heard footsteps. Soft. Not hurried. Not heavy.
Measured.
The door creaked open.
I didn't turn my head.
I didn't need to.
The chakra was familiar — aged like old smoke and paper. Controlled. Patient. Like someone who'd spent their entire life pretending to be gentle.
The Third Hokage.
Hiruzen Sarutobi.
He didn't speak right away.
He stepped inside, closed the door quietly behind him, and just stood there for a moment — his shadow long and thin in the dim light.
When he finally moved closer, it was with that same false softness the village always used around the broken.
"You're safe now," he said.
His voice was warm. Almost grandfatherly. As if kindness could cover what had just happened.
I turned my head. Slowly. Sasuke didn't.
"Safe?" I asked.
He looked at me.
Not surprised. Not offended. Just… tired.
"We'll make sure you're cared for," he said. "Everything will be arranged."
"What about the truth?"
He blinked, just once.
"Certain… aspects of what happened last night will remain confidential," he said carefully. "The elders believe—"
"The elders," I cut in. "Or you?"
Hiruzen sighed. Just a little.
"There's no need for you to carry that burden, Akari-chan."
I sat up slowly, my muscles screaming at me.
"You're too late," I said. "I already do."
Sasuke shifted under the blanket, but didn't look.
Hiruzen approached my bedside and crouched slightly — old knees bending with difficulty. He placed a hand on my shoulder. Light. Reassuring.
"We'll take care of you," he said again. "You and your brother."
I stared at his hand.
It wasn't cruel. It wasn't fake.
It was worse.
It was the touch of someone who thought he was doing the right thing.
"I'm not asking for your care," I said. "I'm asking why no one stopped him."
A pause.
Then, softer than ever: "Because some things… aren't meant to be stopped."
I didn't cry.
I just leaned back into the pillow and turned my face away.
Behind me, Sasuke whispered, voice ragged:
"Don't trust him."
I didn't answer.
Because I didn't have to.
The hospital let us leave three days later.
The house wasn't the same. Of course it wasn't. It was too clean now. Too quiet. As if someone had gone through every room and swept away the blood and the silence and the people, but forgot to put anything back.
We didn't go back to the main compound. The elders — the village — said it wasn't safe for children. Said we could have another home. Said it like a gift, like a kindness.
We didn't say no.
We didn't say anything.
Sasuke changed first.
He stopped talking to me.
Not out of anger. Not out of blame.
Just… stopped.
He'd sit across from me at the table and never lift his eyes. He'd take food and not eat it. He'd go to sleep without saying goodnight. He'd wake up before dawn and leave before I could ask where.
He trained like he was chasing something that wouldn't let him rest. Like if he didn't move fast enough, he'd shatter.
He didn't cry. Not once.
He stopped smiling. Completely.
The world had narrowed into something hard and sharp inside him — and he was already walking toward it.
I changed differently.
I smiled.
I said thank you when civilians handed me groceries. I bowed at the Academy. I didn't skip meals. I spoke when spoken to. I stopped correcting people when they whispered about how brave we were, how strong, how "lucky" to survive.
I played the role.
But beneath it, I was cold.
Not sad. Not numb.
Cold.
Like if I let go for one second, I'd fall apart.
So I didn't.
"We're the last ones," I told myself. "I have to hold it together."
For him.
For me.
For the dead.
But sometimes… when I was alone — when I was really alone — I would remember.
Mikoto's arms around me. Her scent: lavender and warm rice. The way her voice softened when she hummed that old song. The way her fingers always paused before tying the last loop of my braid.
That night, she pulled me close.
Her cheek pressed to my hair.
"I love you," she had whispered.
I didn't say it back.
I thought there would be time.
Now I stood in a stranger's kitchen with a bowl of miso in my hands and wondered if I'd ever deserve it again.
I caught Sasuke staring at the wall once.
He didn't notice me watching.
He was just standing there. Still. So still.
I wanted to say something. Wanted to reach for him. To tell him I'm here, I'm here, we're here.
But I didn't.
Because I didn't know what words could reach him anymore.
Because I didn't know if he wanted to be reached.
Because maybe I didn't either.
The only thing that kept me upright was knowing one thing for sure:
We survived.
Not because we were spared.
Not because we were strong.
But because someone — Itachi — decided we had to carry what came next.
So I didn't cry.
I didn't scream.
I didn't fall.
I lasted.
Even when I didn't want to.
Even when it was easier not to.
Even when it hurt too much to breathe.
The wind had started blowing again.
Soft. Almost kind. But too cold to pretend it was comfort.
The leaves scattered across the courtyard in lazy circles — old, dry, forgotten. I sat in the center of it all, knees drawn to my chest, forehead resting against my arms.
The Uchiha Compound..
This place had been so loud once.
Footsteps on stone.
Mother's voice calling us in for lunch.
Father's sandals pacing when he was irritated.
Me and Sasuke arguing over who got the cleanest shuriken. Me telling both of them they were being idiots.
Shisui's laugh.
Gone now.
The entire Uchiha district was silent..
I had to bear it.
That was the cruel part of surviving. No one tells you that when the smoke clears, and the silence sinks in… you don't feel lucky.
You just feel left behind.
I looked at the walls around me — cracked in places, still stained in others. The blood had been cleaned, but the memories were still there.
I knew.
That's the part that haunted me most.
I knew what was coming.
Not every detail. Not every death. But enough.
I knew the clan would fall. I knew Itachi would do it. I knew Sasuke would be spared.
And I knew I wasn't supposed to stop it.
It was fate. It was canon. It was history.
But that didn't make it easier.
It just made it worse.
Because when I looked into Mikoto's eyes the night before, I'd wanted to scream. To tell her to run. To hold us and not let go.
But I didn't.
Because I was afraid.
Not of her — of the story.
Of what would happen if I broke it.
What if trying to change it made it worse?
What if saving one meant losing everything?
So I said nothing.
And Itachi… He looked at me like he knew.
That was the worst part.
He looked at me — not like a sister, not like a child — but like someone who understood. Someone who carried things.
He left me behind.
Not to suffer.
But to carry it.
To carry Sasuke.
To carry the silence.
To remember.
To remember it all.
People talk about knowing the future like it's power.
Like it's safety.
Like it's some kind of gift.
It isn't.
It's a curse.
Because I lived through this once already — through pages and screens and fan forums.
And now?
Now I was living in the ashes of a story I thought I could rewrite.
The wind picked up again.
It rustled the empty trees like someone searching for voices that no longer answered.
I stared at the ground for a long time.
Then, without meaning to, I whispered:
"I thought knowing the future would save me.
But all it did was make me remember everything too clearly."