The morning sun filtered softly through the curtains, scattering faint beams across the modest Hyūga living room. The smell of grilled fish and miso filled the air as Hana moved back and forth from the kitchen, balancing dishes with practiced grace. Sakura sat cross-legged at the low table, humming a childish tune as she poked at her rice bowl. Ren, still half-asleep, leaned against the doorframe with tousled hair and narrowed eyes, a boy already trying to hide the drowsy tenderness of childhood.
For a moment, it looked like any ordinary morning. But in this house, peace was never simply peace. It was borrowed time.
"Eat properly, Ren," Hana said gently as she placed another dish down. Her voice carried both warmth and authority, the kind that only a mother could command.
Ren grumbled, sliding to his seat. Sakura giggled at her brother's sluggishness, her small shoulders shaking. Hana's lips curved into a faint smile, though her eyes—when no one was looking—shifted toward the window.
Ryouji was there, already dressed, sitting with his tea untouched. He had been awake long before dawn. His posture was calm, his expression neutral, yet his ears never stopped listening—to the sound of footsteps beyond their gate, to the passing voices on the street, to the subtle rhythm of a city that never truly slept.
When Hana caught his gaze, she tilted her head slightly. Still restless? The question never left her lips, but he understood it all the same. He answered with the smallest nod.
The children, oblivious, continued to chatter.
---
Later that day, Hana took Sakura into town. The little girl insisted on buying new ribbons for her hair, her small hand clutching Hana's tightly as they walked past crowded stalls and fruit vendors calling out their wares. Hana laughed softly at her daughter's enthusiasm, her laughter carrying a brightness that seemed to push the shadows away, if only for a while.
"Pink or white?" Sakura held up two ribbons with serious concentration.
"White," Hana replied, smoothing her daughter's hair. "It suits you better."
Sakura beamed, showing the gap where her tooth had fallen out last week. Hana's heart softened, though beneath that warmth, a constant unease gnawed at her.
It wasn't the crowd that bothered her. It wasn't the noise of merchants or the wheels of passing carts. It was the sensation of being observed—the same prickling on the back of her neck she had felt for days.
Her smile never faltered, but her eyes sharpened. She scanned the edge of the marketplace and, for a fraction of a second, saw him.
A man. Standing still, far too still.
His face was unremarkable, easily lost in a crowd, but that was precisely what unsettled her. He wasn't shopping. He wasn't speaking. He was simply watching.
Hana lowered her gaze, feigning ignorance. She bent down to tie Sakura's ribbon, hiding her tightened jaw.
---
Back at home, Ren sat with Ryouji in the quiet garden. Cicadas droned in the distance, a sound that usually meant summer peace, yet today it rang hollow.
"Dad," Ren said suddenly, his voice careful, almost testing. "Why do people look at you strangely?"
Ryouji's hand paused on the teacup. He did not answer right away.
"I mean…" Ren hesitated, staring at the dirt beneath his nails. "When we walk outside. Some people whisper. Some look scared. It's like they know something about you."
Ryouji set the cup down. His gaze shifted to his son, sharp but not unkind. "What do you think they know?"
Ren looked up, meeting his father's eyes. For the first time, he felt as though he were standing before a wall, tall and unyielding, with no cracks to slip through.
"…Nothing," Ren muttered. But his fists clenched.
Ryouji placed a hand on his son's shoulder. The gesture was meant to comfort, yet it carried weight—a silent warning not to push further.
Ren nodded, though the unease inside him only deepened.
---
Evening settled. Hana returned with Sakura, her smile unwavering as she recounted their little adventure. The girl twirled proudly, showing off her new ribbon. Ryouji listened, expression calm, but his eyes never left Hana's for long. She gave the faintest shake of her head. He understood: the shadow she had sensed was real.
Dinner was quiet that night. Too quiet.
When the children had gone to bed, Ryouji stood by the doorway, looking out into the street where lamplight flickered. His shadow stretched long across the tatami, merging with the night.
Behind him, Hana's voice came softly. "They're here, aren't they?"
Ryouji didn't turn. His answer was steady, stripped of all pretenses: "Yes."
Hana closed her eyes, clutching her hands together. She thought of Sakura's laughter, of Ren's questions, of the fragile warmth they had built.
And in that silence, she smiled—just as she had all day. Because smiles, even in shadows, were the only shield she could offer her children.