The voice that called out was familiar, a note from a past life that cut through the murmur of the dispersing crowd. Renjiro turned, his irritation at the bump fading into a more complex recognition. It was Hae. Kagami's widow. And, in another layer of memory that felt both recent and ancient, his former teammate from his early days in the Police Force. The woman who approached was both the person he remembered and a stranger shaped by loss.
"It's been a while, Hae," Renjiro said, his voice automatically modulating into a tone of polite, subdued respect.
She looked older. Not in years, perhaps, but in bearing. The lively sharpness he recalled in her eyes was still there, but it was buried under a layer of profound, dignified weariness.
Her dark hair was pulled into a simple, severe bun, emphasising the fine lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She wore the same sombre black as everyone else, but in her hands, she carried not just her own grief, but its symbol: a framed portrait of Uchiha Kagami, smiling in his jonin uniform, a smile that would never age. The sight of it was a physical weight in Renjiro's chest.
"Renjiro. Miwa-san," Hae greeted them both, offering a small, correct bow of her head. Her voice was calm, too calm, the steadiness of a deep lake over a turbulent abyss.
Renjiro's expression darkened, his own mask of composure cracking at the edges. He looked from the portrait to her composed face.
"Hae… I'm sorry. About Kagami. I wish… I wish we had been stationed together. I might have…"
The words sounded hollow even to him. 'I might have been able to stop it. I might have changed something.'
But the war's chaos had scattered them, and his foreknowledge had been useless against the randomness of deployment.
Hae reached out and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. The touch was light, but it carried the weight of her understanding. "It's alright, Renjiro. I was a shinobi too. I know how it is."
She didn't say it was fair or that it was destiny. She stated it as the harsh, operational fact it was.
"Kagami gave his life for the peace we have now. For the village. For me and Shisui to stand here, in safety."
She said it with a quiet, fierce pride, a narrative she had clearly constructed and clung to for survival. Then she turned to the frowning boy at her side, her expression softening into a blend of love and stern expectation. She pinched Shisui's cheek, not playfully, but with a pointed emphasis.
"I hope you grow up to be just like your father. Willing to sacrifice everything for the good of the village."
Renjiro's internal flinch was violent. He felt the words like a physical blow. 'Sacrifice everything.'
He looked at Shisui—the future hero who would sacrifice his own eye, his life, and his legacy for a village that would barely remember his name. The chasm between Hae's hopeful admonition and the brutal fate Renjiro knew awaited her son was a dizzying, sickening drop.
"Shisui," Hae said, her voice firming again. "These are your father's good friends. Uzumaki Renjiro and Uchiha Miwa. Show respect."
Shisui, clearly still smarting from being scolded, glared at the ground for a moment before forcing his gaze up. His young face was a storm of stubbornness barely contained.
"Hello," he muttered, the greeting perfunctory.
"And?" Hae prompted, her brow raised.
A sigh, small and frustrated. "I apologise for bumping into you," Shisui said to Renjiro, the words recited by rote.
Renjiro, feeling a sudden, unexpected pang of sympathy for the boy who would one day carry the world's weight, bent down slightly to bring himself closer to Shisui's eye level. He met the boy's dark, resentful gaze. "Apology accepted, Shisui. It's a crowded day. Just… watch your step, alright?"
He tried to inject a note of something that wasn't grief or guilt into his voice, but it came out as simple weariness.
Seemingly satisfied, Hae offered Renjiro and Miwa a final, graceful nod. "If you'll excuse us. We should find our place for the lanterns."
She took Shisui's hand, not letting him pull away, and guided him back into the slowly shifting crowd. Renjiro watched them go, the small, straight-backed woman and the boy who walked with the beginnings of a prodigy's coiled energy, until they were swallowed by the sea of black.
"Looks like she's taking it well," Renjiro observed quietly, the words tasting like ash.
Miwa, standing beside him, let out a soft, knowing sigh. "It's an act. But one I respect immensely." She watched the space where Hae had disappeared.
"She has to be strong for Shisui. She has to build a story he can live inside, one where his father's death has meaning and purpose. To show him any cracks… it would be like dropping that portrait. She can't let it shatter."
Renjiro understood. He was living inside his own acts, after all.
Then, Miwa turned back to him, the concern in her eyes returning, sharp and personal. "So… about my question."
Renjiro faced her, a wave of profound exhaustion washing over him. The emotional toll of the memorial, Hae's performed strength, the sight of Shisui, the ghost of Hiro everywhere—it all converged.
"It's a long, long story, Aunt Miwa," he said, his voice low and drained. "And not one for a public place. Not here."
She studied his face for a long moment, seeing the genuine plea beneath the deflection. Finally, she gave a slow, reluctant nod. "Alright. Not today. But remember, Renjiro… long stories don't get shorter with time. They just get heavier to carry alone."
Before he could formulate a response, Hiruzen's voice rose again, amplified by careful chakra projection, calling the assembled villagers back to attention. The brief period of movement and soft conversation hushed, replaced by a renewed, focused silence.
"And now," the Hokage intoned, his voice echoing gently off the damp stones and sombre faces, "we light the lanterns. To guide them home. To remind us that their light, though departed from this world, continues to shine in the memory of the village they loved."
The ceremonial attendants began moving through the crowd, distributing simple, beautiful paper lanterns, each with a small candle set within a wooden base. The grey morning light, though brighter now, was still soft and diffuse, about to be challenged by these hundreds of tiny, man-made suns.
Miwa accepted two lanterns, handing one to Renjiro. They moved to the edge of the designated area, near a stone basin filled with sand and lit tapers. The scratch of a match beside them was startlingly loud in the quiet.
"Hisss."
A flame caught, held in an old veteran's trembling hand. Renjiro leaned in, touching his candle's wick to the offered fire. It caught with a soft puff, a small, warm, dancing point of light springing to life in the heart of the white paper.
Miwa lit hers from his. For a moment, they stood side by side, holding their respective lights, their faces illuminated from below by the gentle glow, casting deep shadows that made them both look older, their sorrows more carved.
Together, without a word, they stepped forward to the cleared space and released their grip. The lanterns, buoyant with heated air, trembled for a second as if hesitant to leave, then began to ascend. Renjiro's eyes followed his, his mind a silent roll call.
'Hiro. Kagami... and Kaito. The nameless faces from the Lightning border. The boy from the squad who didn't dodge fast enough. The medic who stepped in front of a stray kunai.'
The lantern rose, joining a constellation of others—hundreds of them, each a soul, a story, a missing piece of Konoha's heart. They drifted upward, not in a rush, but with a slow, solemn grace, their combined light beginning to challenge the grey of the sky, turning the mist into a golden haze.
Beside him, he knew Miwa's thoughts were not on the collective loss, but on him. On his 'long, long story.'
High above, the lanterns formed a shimmering, silent galaxy. And below, Hiruzen Sarutobi's aged, steady voice began to read. He started not with ranks or titles, but with names. Just names. One after the other, in a clear, unhurried rhythm that carried over the upturned faces and the rising lights.
"Inuzuka Yumiko."
"Shimura Seiji."
"Uchiha Kagami."
"Hatake Hiro."
Each name was a stone dropped into the still pond of the morning, sending ripples of fresh, silent grief through the crowd. Renjiro stood motionless, his face tilted to the sky, watching his lantern grow smaller and smaller, a single point of fire lost in a constellation of remembrance, as the names of the fallen echoed in the clear, cold air, a sombre liturgy for the lost and a stark reminder of the price of the fragile peace they now stood in.