The wind bites through the thinning trees, sharp with the scent of dried leaves and distant rain. Sasuke sits beneath a skeletal maple, its last few crimson leaves shivering against the violet dusk as the sky stretches wide, fading into bruised purples and deep indigos, the first stars just beginning to pierce through. His beige cloak has gathered quite the dust and fallen foliage around the hem, unmoving but for the occasional breath of wind tugging at its edges. One knee drawn up, katana resting across his thigh, the last Uchiha lets the silence settle like mist in his lungs.

The earth beneath the man is cold, yet not enough to numb, but to remind him he’s still here. Still walking. Still watching. His left eye remains closed, conserving what little chakra he has left withing the Rinnegan as the right stays open. Every breath exhales exhaustion, and still, he refuses to lie down.

Sasuke hasn't been to Konoha in months. Maybe longer. He hasn't sent any letters, either, outside the occasional report for the Rokudaime, and the ache in his legs is easier to ignore than the one behind his ribs. It gnaws quietly - nostalgia, maybe. Or something lonelier. Something that won't be named, lest it become too real. Too open. Too... raw.