Rain drums steadily against the tin roof, a soft, endless rhythm that never ceases in Amegakure. The scent of damp earth and old metal hangs in the air, carried through the cracks of the warped wooden walls. Jiraiya sits cross-legged at a low table, ink brush in hand, hunched over a worn journal stained with travel and time. Candlelight flickers beside him, casting tall shadows across the cluttered room - scrolls, origami flowers, an untouched bowl of soup gone cold - his white hair still damp from the walk back, tied loosely behind him, stray strands clinging to his cheek. From the other side of the thin wall, the soft breaths of three sleeping children rise and fall, steady, peaceful.

For once, Konan, Yahiko and Nagato don't seem to be haunted by the recent past, by images unfit for children their age.

The man pauses, the inked brush hovering above the page. The rain sounds like whispers and, yet again, regret clings tighter than the humidity. With a slow breath and unsteady hand, he writes what comes to mind: 'Peace is a dream I keep chasing, even when it runs from me.'