The first time Hinata laughed, Michel thought it was wind.
A soft, airy sound. Barely a breath.
But real.
She lay in her mother's arms, wrapped in soft blue cloth.
The woman hummed gently, rocking side to side, eyes half-closed. Her voice—no louder than a breeze—carried the melody of something not meant for others to hear.
A lullaby. Ancient. Personal. A prayer hidden in notes.
The room was small, its paper windows letting in the pale gold of the setting sun.
The air smelled of herbs, fresh linens, and skin warm from holding life too closely.
Hinata shifted in her arms, eyelids fluttering.
Her mother brushed a few strands of hair from her forehead with reverent fingers, then leaned in and sang again, this time softer, as if afraid to wake her completely.
Michel stood in the stillness, as close as the veil between worlds would allow.
He could feel every heartbeat in that moment—the child's, the mother's, his own soul's echo.
Hinata giggled. A tiny sound, like porcelain bells.
Her mother gasped in delight and laughed, pressing their foreheads together.
"You're stronger than they think," she whispered.
"And I'll be strong for you, my little moonlight."
She pressed a kiss to her daughter's nose and held her tighter, swaying as if the rhythm could shield them both.
Michel stayed there long after they left the room.
Alone in the silence. Remembering how laughter used to sound in his own home.
"If I could give you a life of laughter," he thought, "I would."
<<<< o >>>>
But peace, like dreams, never lasts.
One evening, as the sky outside darkened and the house fell silent, Michel felt something shift.
Subtle. Cold. Wrong.
He turned inward, toward the threads that connected the lives around Hinata—family, blood, chakra, soul.
And one of them… frayed.
It was not Hinata.
It was the woman who had just held her.
Her spirit dimmed, not violently, but like a candle losing its oil.
Her flow disrupted. A weight where once there was rhythm.
Michel focused. He reached inward with his senses, the way he had when stabilizing Hinata.
But what he saw chilled him: her soul was intact… but closing. As if preparing itself to leave.
"No," he murmured inwardly.
"Not now. Not her."
He tried to channel something toward her—comfort, perhaps. Support.
But the bond wasn't there. She wasn't tied to him as Hinata was.
"I can't reach her."
It struck him then, with all the weight of a master who knew the limits of his own teachings.
"I can hold one soul. Not two."
" And she… she already knows she must go."
Michel bowed his head.
"Please…" he whispered. "Let her stay. For the girl."
<<<< o >>>>
The next day, two clan members came to speak to Hiashi.
Michel stood silently in a shadowed corner of the main hall, unseen.
The two elders entered like statues.
Straight backs. White eyes. Robes stiff as bark.
Not cruel. Just ancient. Cold with conviction.
"She may have stabilized," one said, not even using Hinata's name.
"But her future is uncertain."
Hiashi remained silent, arms crossed behind his back.
"The clan must not depend on what cannot be measured," the second continued.
"She is my daughter," Hiashi said quietly.
"And you are the head of this clan," said the elder, "not merely a father. A branch must grow strong. Perhaps… with new roots."
They left without bowing.
Michel stared after them, rage deep in his chest.
They spoke of life like it was currency.
Measured, judged, discarded.
Hiashi didn't move for a long time.
His eyes were open, but unfocused. Michel studied his soul.
There was love there. True and constant.
But also doubt. A creeping doubt wrapped in duty.
"He doesn't understand why they're so harsh," Michel thought.
"But he suspects his love may blind him."
<<<< o >>>>
That night, Hinata dreamed.
Michel felt it as he always did—a soft release in her spirit, and then the pull.
He followed.
The world greyed.
The mist curled around familiar shapes.
And Hinata sat near the beginnings of his old dojo—its beams now stronger, a few paper windows forming from memory, now catching a breeze that didn't blow.
She was older now.
Her form in the grey matched her waking self—a baby just past one year. Still small. Still soft.
But steadier. Stronger.
She sat cross-legged on the mist, holding something strange: a flower. Pale and glimmering.
Michel approached and realized—it was from his world. A blossom from a tree that had grown beside his dojo in life.
"I didn't bring that," he thought. "She did."
She looked up as he appeared, and clapped her hands.
She didn't speak. But her face lit up with recognition.
Michel sat beside her.
She climbed into his lap and laid her head on his chest.
"She knows," he thought. "Here, she remembers."
She looked up and pointed at the half-formed dojo.
Then smiled again and began to hum. Just a few notes.
Michel recognized the melody.
"Her mother's lullaby…"
And he realized something else.
She remembered the world beyond the grey.
She recalled voices, places, sensations.
But when she awoke, she would forget this place.
Forget him.
Michel held her tighter, though there was no body between them.
"Then I'll stay here," he whispered.
"So you always find me when you dream."
<<<< o >>>>
Days passed.
The mother's soul dimmed further.
Michel began to feel time pressing down like weight on his shoulders.
Michel began to feel time press against his soul, not his shoulders—a weight not of hours, but of endings.
And then it came.
<<<< o >>>>
It was night.
Michel felt the pull shift—not toward Hinata, but toward the mother.
Her spirit trembled.
Flickered.
He reached for her—not out of control, but drawn by instinct.
He entered the space between moments.
The threshold of parting.
There she stood.
Not in her body.
But in form. In light.
She saw him.
She truly saw him.
Her face did not flinch.
She smiled. Tired. Beautiful.
"Are you the one keeping her alive?" she asked softly.
Michel nodded.
She placed a hand on his chest.
"Thank you."
She looked down, and saw her new daughter sleeping.
At arm's length when she was alive, now unreachable.
"She's not ready to lose me."
"I know," Michel said. He hadn't spoken aloud in so long it startled him.
"I wish… I could stay longer," she whispered, her voice thinner now. "I wanted to see both of them grow."
She touched her belly—flat now in spirit, but still carrying memory.
"My little Hanabi. She'll never know me."
A wind began to rise.
A cold one.
A gate opened behind her—wide, dark, endless.
The Shinigami waited beyond.
A shape of presence, of judgment, of inevitability.
She turned back to Michel.
"Even if they forget me" she said,
"If you can… remind them they were loved."
"Please… protect her. My little moonlight."
"I will."
She stepped back.
And then, she was gone.
<<<< o >>>>
Michel did not cry.
He returned to Hinata's side.
She stirred in her sleep.
Her hand reached up toward a warmth that wasn't there.
Michel sat with her in the silence.
He was still holding the line.
But now, he carried something more.
A promise.
And in the distance, mist stirred.