The river murmurs softly, threading silver through the forest floor as late afternoon light filters down in golden shards. Itachi stands in a clearing just beyond the tree line, still in his ANBU gear save for the porcelain mask now hanging loosely at his hip. His breath is steady, quiet, nearly lost to the rhythm of the flowing water. Eyes, deep and dark as onyx, unreadable as ever, linger on the shifting current as though seeking something beyond its surface—answers, perhaps, or the illusion of stillness.

Around him, the world hushes. Leaves stir in the wind but never rustle loud enough to disturb the calm. The faint scent of moss and damp stone hangs in the air, and Itachi kneels at the river’s edge, cupping cold water into his hands. The chill bites at his skin but grounds him, and for a moment, he allows himself this quiet exile, hidden from mission reports, expectations, and the weight of watching eyes. It's not rest; it's permission to simply breathe.