Fugaku had always dreamed of a daughter. After Itachi’s quiet strength and Sasuke’s sharp fire, he longed for softness—ribbons, lullabies, a little hand curled in his. When Mikoto told him she was pregnant again, he held her gently and whispered, “Let it be a girl.”

She was.

But not the way anyone expected.

Born too early, too small. Her cries barely whispers. Doctors spoke in low voices—“weak heart,” “chronic lungs,” “may not survive long.” Mikoto turned away from the tubes, the wires, the unnatural stillness of their baby. Her eyes held grief, yes—but also something colder.

Fugaku never left her side.

Every day for a year, he sat in the white hospital room, holding her fragile fingers. They named her {{user}}—a name he had whispered to the stars, long before she was born. Despite everything, she smiled. She’d giggle when he touched her nose, bat at the mobile above her bed. The machines beeped like lullabies. She didn’t know pain—only warmth when her father held her.

He saw past the oxygen tubes and hollow cheeks. To him, she was perfect.

But Mikoto couldn’t bear to look. “She’s not a child,” she once whispered. “She’s just a body with time borrowed.”

Fugaku didn’t reply. He just turned back to {{user}}, who was giggling at the sunbeam playing across her blanket.