The school had been rebuilt faster than anyone expected.
At least on the surface.
Fresh walls replaced shattered ones. Windows reflected the morning light cleanly, as nothing had ever burned or collapsed. New floors covered old cracks. The administration called it "recovery."
But the air remembered.
Tobi felt it the moment he stepped through the gates.
Whispers followed him—not loud, not cruel. Careful. Curious. Students glanced at him and then looked away too quickly, like eye contact itself carried risk.
He adjusted the strap of his bag and kept walking.
Normal, he told himself. Just walk.
Iruka matched his pace without speaking. Ren trailed behind them, yawning loudly.
"So," Ren said, stretching. "First full week back. No explosions. Already an improvement."
Iruka didn't smile. "Don't tempt fate."
Mizumi appeared from the side path, already talking. "You two are late. Again. If we get extra drills, I'm blaming—"
She stopped.
Sumi stood a few steps behind her.
She wore the school uniform perfectly—too perfectly. Every fold is precise. Hair tied neatly. Expression calm.
But something was off.
Tobi noticed it immediately.
She wasn't looking at him.
Not avoiding—just… distant. Like she'd placed something invisible between them.
"Morning," Mizumi said, oblivious.
"Good morning," Sumi replied politely.
Too polite.
Tobi felt a dull pressure in his chest.
---
Class passed slowly.
Teachers spoke. Chalk scratched against boards. Pages turned. But Tobi barely heard any of it.
He felt watched.
Not by students.
By rules.
When the bell rang, he stood—and paused.
Sumi was already packing up.
"Hey," he said quietly.
She stopped. Turned.
"Yes?"
That word again. Clean. Neutral.
"You okay?" he asked.
A moment passed.
Then she nodded. "I am."
But her eyes didn't match the answer.
Iruka cleared his throat nearby, sensing something he didn't understand. "We're heading to the courtyard. You coming?"
Mizumi waved. "I'll drag her if needed."
Sumi shook her head gently. "I can't today."
Mizumi blinked. "What? Why?"
Sumi hesitated—just long enough.
"I have… responsibilities."
Ren tilted his head. "You always do."
She didn't deny it.
Tobi watched her hands.
They were clenched.
---
The courtyard was filled with sunlight and noise, but it felt hollow.
Iruka practised forms alone. Ren lay on a bench, complaining about life. Mizumi paced, restless.
Tobi stood apart.
Sumi's absence felt louder than the crowd.
He didn't understand why—but he knew this wasn't random.
Something had shifted after the study session.
After her home.
After the woman by the river.
He remembered the way Sumi had said later.
Later never comes unless someone walks toward it.
---
He found her near the old stairwell behind the main building.
A quiet place.
She stood facing the wall where old protective markings had been etched long ago—faded but still intact. Her fingers hovered near them, not touching.
"Sumi," he said.
She turned slowly.
Her expression was composed, but there was tension beneath it—like a string pulled too tight.
"You shouldn't be here," she said.
"Why?"
She looked away. "People notice."
"I don't care."
"That's the problem."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, she spoke—quiet, controlled.
"My family knows."
Tobi's breath slowed. "Knows what?"
She met his eyes this time.
"About you."
That word again.
You.
Not what you are. Not what you did.
Just you.
"They don't say it directly," she continued. "They never do. But I was reminded this morning. Of what is expected. Of what paths are… acceptable."
Tobi swallowed. "And I'm not one of them."
She didn't answer.
That was enough.
He stepped closer—not touching, not crossing a boundary. Just close enough that she had to acknowledge him fully.
"Is it because I'm not—" he stopped himself, choosing his words carefully. "—what they believe in?"
Sumi's voice was barely audible. "Belief is not something you change easily."
Tobi looked at the faded markings on the wall.
At the weight behind her calm.
In a quiet way, she carried something too heavy for her age.
Then he spoke—not loudly. Not angrily.
But clearly.
"If faith is what stands between people," he said, "then it shouldn't be untouchable."
She turned sharply. "Tobi—"
He met her gaze, steady.
"I won't ask you to choose," he said. "And I won't force my way into your world."
A pause.
"But I won't disappear either."
The air felt still.
Sumi searched his face—expecting recklessness, maybe fear.
She found resolve instead.
Then he said it.
Not as a challenge.
Not as a promise made lightly.
As a statement.
"I'll change your faith."
The words hung between them.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
And for the first time, Sumi didn't look away.
The silence after his words was heavier than the words themselves.
"I'll change your faith."
They didn't echo.
They didn't need to.
Sumi stood frozen, eyes locked on Tobi like she was seeing him for the first time—and also like she was seeing something she had been warned about her entire life.
"You shouldn't say things like that," she said at last.
Her voice wasn't angry.
That scared him more.
"Why?" Tobi asked.
"Because faith isn't a wall you push down," she replied quietly. "It's a foundation. If it cracks, everything above it collapses."
Tobi exhaled slowly. "Then maybe it was already cracked."
That was the wrong thing to say.
Sumi turned away, fingers tightening around her sleeves. "You don't understand."
"Then explain it to me."
She didn't answer immediately.
When she finally spoke, it wasn't to him—it was to the markings on the wall, to the air, to something older.
"My family didn't choose belief," she said. "It chose them."
Tobi felt something settle in his chest.
"So it's not just rules," he said. "It's an inheritance."
She nodded once.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Sumi straightened instantly, composure snapping back into place like armour.
"We should go," she said. "People will talk."
"They already do."
She hesitated—then glanced back at him, eyes unreadable.
"That doesn't mean we give them more to hold onto."
She walked away.
Tobi didn't follow.
Not because he didn't want to.
Because he understood that sometimes staying still was the only way not to make things worse.
---
Iruka noticed immediately.
"You said something," he said later, when they were heading home.
Tobi blinked. "What?"
Iruka stopped walking. "You always do this. You think no one sees it—but your shoulders are too stiff. That means you poked something dangerous."
Ren leaned in from behind, grinning. "Did he confess? Please tell me he confessed."
"No," Tobi said flatly.
Ren sighed dramatically. "Tragedy."
Iruka studied him. "Did you mess up?"
Tobi thought of Sumi's eyes.
"…Maybe."
Iruka nodded once. "Then you'll fix it."
That certainty surprised him.
"You think I can?"
Iruka shrugged. "You're still here. That's usually step one."
Ren clapped his hands. "Wow. Inspirational. Can we eat now?"
---
That night, Tobi dreamed.
Not of swords.
Not of battles.
He stood in a long corridor of stone and paper—temple walls layered with talismans, seals, names written in careful ink.
At the end of the corridor stood Sumi.
But she wasn't alone.
Figures stood behind her—faceless, robed, unmoving. Their presence pressed down on the space like gravity.
When Tobi tried to walk forward, invisible resistance pushed back.
A voice—not hers, not his—spoke.
Faith does not bend.
Tobi looked down at his hands.
They were empty.
"No," he said. "But people do."
The corridor cracked.
He woke up breathless.
---
The next few days were… different.
Not distant.
Not cold.
Careful.
Sumi still spoke to him. Still studied beside Mizumi. Still walked the same paths.
But there was a line now.
Invisible. Precise.
She never crossed it.
Teachers noticed.
Miss Shiratori watched their interactions with narrowed eyes.
Ishawa smirked knowingly but said nothing.
Yanshi said only one thing, late one afternoon, while Tobi practised alone.
"Words have weight," he said. "Especially the ones said with conviction."
Tobi didn't stop moving. "Was I wrong?"
Yanshi didn't answer.
That was an answer.
---
Sumi stood at the river that evening.
The same river.
The one that carried memories downstream without asking permission.
Her mother sat nearby, posture straight, hands folded neatly in her lap.
"You spoke to him," her mother said calmly.
Sumi stiffened. "Yes."
"And?"
A pause.
"He is… sincere."
Her mother looked out at the water. "Sincerity does not protect against consequences."
"I know."
"Then remember that."
The wind shifted.
Petals fell.
Sumi watched them drift apart.
---
Back at his apartment, Tobi stared at the ceiling.
He replayed the moment again and again—not the words, but her reaction.
He didn't regret what he said.
But he was beginning to understand what it would cost.
"Faith," he murmured.
Something inside him stirred—not violently.
Patiently.
Like a blade waiting to be lifted.
And somewhere beyond the city, unseen eyes remained open—measuring how long resolve could last before it broke… or sharpened.