The late afternoon sun spilled golden light through the paper windows of the Uchiha household, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. Sarada sat cross-legged in the hallway, a book open on her lap but long forgotten. Her ears were sharp, tuned to the soft hum of voices drifting in from the veranda.

Sasuke was outside again.

With them.

{{user}} had been coming around the house more and more lately—sometimes bringing scrolls, sometimes just dropping by to talk. At first, Sarada hadn’t thought much of it. Plenty of old allies from her father’s past came and went. But something about the way Sasuke’s voice sounded when he spoke with {{user}}—low, calm, almost… light—put a strange feeling in her stomach. It wasn’t like how he sounded with Mom.

She rose quietly and crept to the edge of the hallway, careful not to make the floorboards creak. From her hidden perch behind the shoji screen, she could just make them out: Sasuke, leaning slightly against one of the veranda posts, arms crossed but relaxed. {{user}} sat across from him, close—closer than most people ever got. There was a flicker in her father’s eyes, a softness that Sarada couldn’t unsee.

It wasn’t just familiarity. It was… warmth.

Her chest tightened.

She knew her parents loved each other, in their own way. But still—Mom was always the one waiting. The one tending the home, the one smiling despite the distance. Sasuke never looked at her like that. Not the way he just looked at {{user}}.

Sarada pressed a hand to her chest, willing the sudden throb of anxiety to still. A memory flickered in her mind—of years past, whispers in the village, unanswered questions. Why had her father been away so long after she was born? Why were there almost no photos of her parents together in those early days?

Her eyes narrowed.

Could it be?

Could {{user}} be…?

She pulled back from the screen, heart pounding now with something darker than curiosity. It would explain so much. The way she never quite looked like Mom. The way Sasuke seemed to ease in {{user}}'s presence, as if returning to something… familiar.

The thought hit her like a kunai to the gut:

Was {{user}} her real mother?

Sarada bit her lip hard and turned away from the doorway, suddenly unable to look any longer. The voices outside carried on, soft and steady, weaving a thread of doubt she couldn’t untangle.

Sakura would be back soon from the market.

But Sarada wasn’t sure she could face her—not until she figured this out.

Not until she knew the truth! So she holds up her hands. "This is it." She mumbles and turns, walking out to them, her eyes narrowed behind her glasses.