[~ 1400 Words]
~ A few days before the Uchiha Massacre.
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Location: Uchiha Household, shortly after Izumi runs off to tell her father the good news.
The hallway quieted after Izumi's voice echoed through the house. Her footsteps retreated into the sitting room, where the paper doors slid closed with a familiar clack.
Haruki remained near the doorway, half-turned, when he heard it — a familiar throat-clearing behind him.
"Haruki," his father called in his steady, low voice.
Haruto stood just inside the family room, wearing his old dark brown yukata, a cup of tea in one hand. His gray-streaked hair was tied back neatly, and though the years had weathered his body, his back was still straight, his presence unmistakably composed. He nodded towards the porch.
"Walk with me."
Haruki followed wordlessly, sensing the weight behind his father's request. The two stepped into the moonlit backyard — a small enclosed garden of trimmed pines and gravel — quiet except for the gentle wind shifting the bamboo chimes.
They stood beneath the awning as Haruto took a long sip of tea.
"Izumi's lucky to have you," he finally said, not looking at Haruki. "You've done good, son."
Haruki lowered his gaze for a moment, watching his own shadow ripple slightly in the lantern light.
"She's… everything we have left."
"She's everything worth protecting," Haruto corrected gently.
A few heartbeats passed before Haruki dared to voice what had gnawed at him for weeks.
"Father… something's off, isn't it?"
Haruto's jaw tightened. He set the cup down beside the pillar with a soft clink.
"I've seen it," he admitted. "More ANBU than usual—rotating watch, sometimes watching our own from the rooftops. They're not being discreet anymore."
Haruki's throat dried.
"Clan meetings... have been different. Tenser."
Haruto gave a slow nod.
"I wouldn't know. You know I'm not allowed to attend. A 'commoner' like me doesn't hold standing among those born with the crest."
He looked toward the sky. His tone was steady, but behind it was a rare undercurrent of bitterness.
"But I listen. I pay attention. I've seen enough men prepare for war to recognize the signs."
Haruki's hand unconsciously moved to the kunai pouch at his thigh.
"You think... they'll move against us?"
Haruto remained silent for a moment, before answering.
"I don't know who will strike first. But I know when people build fences around dogs, they're planning to put them down. The leash tightens before the collar breaks."
A heavy silence hung between them. The distant chirping of crickets was the only sound in the dark.
"We'll need to be ready," Haruto finally said, turning to face his son fully. "If anything happens — anything that doesn't feel right — we run. You take Izumi and leave the compound immediately. You understand?"
Haruki's eyes widened.
"But what about you—?"
"Don't argue." Haruto's voice was sharper now. Not cruel, but final. "My job is to make sure my children survive. You think I trained you every day, pushed you to master the basics, just so you could be a soldier in someone else's war?"
Haruki looked down.
"I'm sorry, Father. For not awakening the Sharingan. I—"
Haruto raised a hand, waving it off.
"You've got your mother's discipline. That's more important than a bloodline trait that turns children into tools."
He stepped forward and placed a firm hand on Haruki's shoulder.
"You'll be a fine Chūnin instructor one day — calm, clear-headed, and solid. The kind of shinobi this village should value. That is if we survive."
Then his tone shifted, quieter but tinged with purpose.
"Don't tell your sister just yet. Let her enjoy her lessons, her laughter, her illusions of peace. If — and only if — something feels wrong, you tell her then. Understood?"
Haruki nodded silently.
Haruto gave one last look to the moonlit garden, then disappeared into the hallway, the door closing softly behind him.
Haruki remained behind, watching the shadows grow deeper.
He didn't want to believe his father's instinct was right.
But the ANBU on the rooftops, the silences in clan meetings, the subtle tightening of the net around their lives — it all pointed to something.
And he was already preparing for the night when everything would burn.
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Location: after Haruki's talk with his father — late at night, inside the Uchiha family's storage room.
The house was silent.
Izumi had gone to bed early, still beaming from the news of Kurenai-sensei agreeing to train her. Their father rested in the other room with his old blade laid beside him — a habit he'd returned to lately, saying nothing about it.
Haruki sat alone on the cool wooden floor of the family storehouse, a single candle flickering beside him. The air smelled of dry parchment, oil ink, and a faint trace of lavender — his mother's scent.
Before him sat a timeworn chest. The lid creaked faintly as he opened it.
"She sealed these away herself…" he murmured, reverently running his hand along the inner edge.
Inside were six scrolls, wrapped in deep red silk and marked with the Uchiha crest. They were old — older than he expected. At the bottom lay a final scroll, different from the others: wrapped in faded violet cloth, tied not with red, but white thread.
He picked up the first scroll on top and untied it carefully.
"Katon: Gōka Mekkyaku" (Fire Release: Great Fire Annihilation) — a devastating wide-range fire technique.
"Way beyond me for now…" he muttered, setting it aside.
The next two scrolls held "Katon: Hibashiri" (Fire Release: Running Fire) and "Katon: Kasumi Enbu no Jutsu" (Fire Release: Mist Blaze Dance Technique) — both high-level techniques used for offense and deception.
But what caught his eye weren't just the jutsu diagrams — it was the ink in the margins.
Small, elegant notes. Not part of the printed instructions.
Handwritten.
His breath caught as he recognized the writing. It was his mother's.
"Haruki, you tend to over-extend the third seal. If you're reading this: control your breath first — jutsu second."
He stared. His fingers trembled.
"Izumi will never love Katon like you. Let her chase illusions. You're meant for stillness — let your flame hold, not burst."
More and more of her thoughts filled the corners and sides of the scrolls — bits of advice, encouragement, even light scolding — all addressed to him.
It felt like… she was still teaching him.
Tears welled in his eyes, but he blinked them back.
Then he picked up the violet scroll at the bottom — the one tied with white.
It was lighter than the others, and as he unwrapped it, he saw not diagrams — but a letter, sealed in wax with Hazuki's personal Uchiha crest.
With quiet hands, he broke the seal and began to read.
**"To my son, Haruki —
If you're reading this, it means your father believes it's time. I trust his instincts.
You may never awaken the Sharingan. But do not think you lack worth. It means you must forge your own strength, and that strength will be yours alone.
These scrolls are not only ninjutsu — they are me. My memories, my corrections, my failures. I left them so you wouldn't be alone if I could no longer guide you.
And if something happens to our clan — if danger comes even from within — protect Izumi. Her heart will never know the cruelty of shinobi life… unless it has to.
The Uchiha flame burns in your soul — not your eyes. That flame, shaped by kindness, will make you stronger than the bloodline ever could.
— Mom, Uchiha Hazuki"**
Haruki exhaled shakily.
He touched the scroll to his forehead, eyes closed — a silent bow to his mother's will.
As the candle dwindled, he turned back to the first training scroll.
"Mother said to hold the flame…"
He steadied his breathing.
"Katon: Hōsenka no Jutsu" (Fire Release: Phoenix Sage Fire Technique).
He formed the hand seals slowly, recalling every note she'd written.
Flames danced in his throat — and burst forth in precise, miniature fireballs. They spun through the air, sizzling gently before fading out in the night breeze.
His most precise attempt yet.
"Thank you… Mom," he whispered.
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