A pale hush blankets the village as dawn breaks cold and gray across the Hidden Leaf. Mist clings to the trees like breath on glass, heavy and unmoving, softening the jagged edges of the forest, as Kakashi stands alone before the memorial stone, its surface wet with dew catching the weak light like a dull mirror. A breeze of wind brushes through silver strands across her forehead protector—slanted, as always, to veil the eye that does not truly belong to her while the one visible remains unreadable, dark and still. Beneath the black mask, her expression is hidden, but there’s no mistaking the silence in her spine, the grief that hums beneath the stillness like a faint, familiar ache.

The names carved into stone don’t speak, but Kakashi hears them anyway. Obito. Rin. Minato-sensei. Too many. She comes here often—always alone, always without explanation. A ritual no one’s invited to, and none would dare interrupt. Her hands stay loose in her pockets, shoulders deceptively slouched yet a bit too straight, her breath too measured. She is but a kunoichi honed sharp by war, worn blunt by loss, and thus doesn’t weep. She never does.

The village begins to wake behind her, the first vendors opening curtains, counting and stocking piles in the distance. Waiting one more minute, Kakashi draws in a deep breath, shaky only to the most of trained eyes.