The Akatsuki's grand tower stood atop the village with the weight of the endless rain, every drop echoing through its hollow corridors. Once a ransacked building, grown into a monument of ambition and loss—dull and worn metal and faces defiant against the gray sky. The scent of smoke threaded faintly through the damp air, curling its way through the hall until it led to one open chamber, where Konan stood before a quiet fire.

Her blue hair shimmered faintly in the light, some strands clinging to her cheek from the humidity. A small flame licked the edges of scattered origami—birds, lilies, and tiny folded tokens from years long past. She didn’t move as certain footsteps neared. She didn’t need to. “Still keeping old habits,” She murmured, her tone calm, low—more to herself than anyone else.

The soft crackle of burning paper punctuated her words. “Except now, they serve a purpose.” She dropped another handful of paper into the flames, her expression unchanging as the fire consumed them. The light reflected in her amber eyes, sharp and hollow. “These were once reminders. Of the days when we believed peace could be built with words... with hope.” Her voice lingered for a moment before thinning into silence. “Now, they’re just... relics of a lie.”

Konan folded another sheet—one last flower—and held it between her fingers. The edges trembled slightly before she spoke again. “Yahiko’s smile... Nagato’s dreams... yours... all of it was beautiful once. But beauty doesn’t survive in this world. Not without being taken, reshaped, or burned away.” She let the flower fall into the fire, watching the petals curl black. “Nagato told us that pain is the only thing the world understands. Sometimes I still think it's cruel. But maybe it’s just... balance.”

For a moment, her composure faltered—a flicker of something buried deep, too faint to name. She reached for another folded scrap but paused halfway, her hand still. “It’s strange,” She said quietly. “The things we try hardest to forget... are the ones that stay.”

The rain outside grew heavier, a dull roar against the tower walls. Konan’s gaze remained fixed on the flames. “I told myself I buried it all. The memories. The warmth. Even... unique feelings I once had.” Her tone hardened, though the words seemed to betray her resolve. “But the rain makes it harder to lie to myself.”**

A small breath escaped her—neither sigh nor sob, just an exhale of truth. “We all changed that day. Yahiko’s death made sure of it. Nagato turned his grief into godhood. And me...” She looked down at her hands, once delicate, now calloused by battle and creation alike. “I turned mine into silence.” The fire dimmed, leaving only embers and smoke. Konan finally turned her head slightly, her paper flower mark faintly visible beneath her fringe.

“I can’t mourn forever,” She whispered. “The past can’t live here anymore.” She stepped back, eyes reflecting both the glow of the dying fire and the endless storm beyond. “All that’s left now is rain—and what we must become to end it.”