She had always been ordinary.
That was what she told herself. Born to a single mother who worked tirelessly to provide for her, she had never known her father. Even as a child, that absence did not feel like a void—it was merely a quiet fact of her life. She had her mother, and that had been enough.
Her earliest memories were simple, yet vivid. She remembered the gentle hum of lullabies whispered in the dark of night, the warm scent of bread baking in the kitchen, and the softness of her mother's hand holding hers tightly during storms. She remembered sitting by the window, watching the rain streak across the glass, imagining herself as a character in one of the countless stories she loved. She loved stories. They made the ordinary feel magical, gave her days a rhythm beyond homework and chores. Adventure, courage, heroes, friendship—they were as real to her mind as the sunlight that filtered through her curtains.
From ages one to five, life had been peaceful. She ran barefoot across grass-strewn paths behind her home, chased the neighbour's cat until it darted nimbly up the fence, and explored the small creek that wound lazily through the fields. Every sound, every smell, every gentle breeze seemed to carry life and mystery. She loved the smell of wet earth after rain, the rough bark of the trees she climbed, and the way sunlight danced on rippling water. Her imagination thrived in these quiet spaces, creating worlds where she could do and be anything, far beyond the confines of her tiny body.
Yet life was fragile. By the time she turned six, she noticed the small betrayals of her own body: fatigue that no amount of sleep could repair, headaches that lingered and pulsed, fevers that drained her strength. Doctors' warnings became realities she could not ignore. Treatments were long and exhausting, often leaving her too weak to play, too tired to read, too small to fight against the illness quietly invading her life. Despite her mother's tireless care, her body began to fail in ways she could not prevent. Hope felt delicate, like a candle flickering against a persistent wind.
And then, one quiet night, everything ended.
The hospital room was cold, sterile, and unnervingly quiet except for the steady beeping of machines. She felt impossibly heavy, as though the world itself was pressing down on her. Her limbs refused to respond, and the darkness crept closer, relentless and absolute. In that final moment of consciousness, one wish burned brighter than any fear: I want one more life. One where I can grow up and live fully. One where I can be safe.
When she opened her eyes again, the world was impossibly bright.
Warmth flooded her tiny body: sunlight spilling across her small face, a gentle breeze brushing her skin, soft cloths pressing against her. She attempted to move, and her arms twitched instinctively. The shock of realisation struck her—her body was no longer the frail shell she had known. She was an infant again, only two months old, swaddled in a soft crib that smelled faintly of clean linen and the warmth of human care.
Her senses felt sharper than ever. Every thread of cloth pressed against her skin, every subtle temperature change, every small sound was magnified. She could hear muffled voices, footsteps moving across the floor, the quiet exhalations of someone nearby. Most startling of all, she could see clearly. Her cerulean-blue eyes reflected the sunlight, wide with curiosity, absorbing every detail. Soft, silver-white hair framed her tiny face, delicate as cobwebs, catching the light in a way that made her feel ethereal and fragile.
Even as an infant, memories of her previous life remained intact. She remembered her childhood, her mother's love, and the countless stories she had cherished. She remembered the feel of running barefoot on grass, the smell of wet earth after rain, and the comfort of warm blankets at night. She could not yet understand why she was here, or where here even was, but a strange sense of continuity lingered—she was alive again. Somehow, this world had given her another chance.
The room around her was unfamiliar. Faces, voices, objects—all strange and new. Even her own crib, so familiar in form, carried the scent of a world she had never seen. Her mind was too small in this body to comprehend dates, history, or the unfolding events of this world. She did not yet know of the attacks that had shaken villages, the children born alongside her, or the paths that awaited her. For now, there was only the world immediately around her: the warmth, the softness, the presence of someone watching over her.
Outside the window, the village stretched beneath her gaze. Curved rooftops gleamed in sunlight, villagers moved with purpose along winding streets, tending gardens, carrying baskets, or moving swiftly with tasks she could not yet name. Trees swayed gently in the breeze, their leaves rustling softly, and far in the distance, the Hokage Monument loomed over the village, its carved faces solemn, noble, and timeless. She could sense, somehow, that this place was steeped in history, though the meaning eluded her tiny mind.
A soft voice broke her thoughts. "She's awake."
A woman leaned over the crib, eyes gentle yet cautious. "You're here… safe," she said. "For now, you must stay hidden. No one knows who you are, and that is for the best. Your parentage must remain a secret until you can understand this world."
Her infant mind could not fully comprehend the words, but instinctively she felt protection and care. Someone had ensured her safety in this strange world. For now, that was enough.
Even as a baby, she could sense the faint life around her. The village pulsed with subtle energy—quiet, persistent, alive—but she could not interact with it. She could only feel it, like a soft hum in the background, gentle and unobtrusive.
She could think, she could remember, and she could observe. But she could not act. Not yet. She could not move beyond the limits of her infant body. She could only lie in her crib, letting the world wash over her, storing sensations, impressions, and memories for the future.
The woman adjusted her blanket, smoothing the folds around her. "Rest now," she said softly. "Sleep. Grow stronger. You will need it in the days to come."
She blinked up at the ceiling, feeling the warmth of sunlight on her tiny face. Her chest rose and fell with slow, steady breaths, but beneath it all, a quiet determination stirred. She did not yet know the struggles or dangers of this world, did not know the other children, the conflicts, or the village's history. But one thought had begun to root itself deep inside her: I will grow up. I will survive. I will live.
Time seemed endless, measured only by the soft rustle of fabric, the distant footsteps, and the gentle sway of sunlight across the room. Every sound, every movement, every subtle vibration of life in the village beyond her window impressed upon her a sense of continuity—she was part of something, though she could not yet grasp its scope.
As the day faded into evening, the golden light of sunset filled the room. The faint hum of life beyond the walls became more pronounced: voices of villagers, the clatter of tools, the distant call of children. She felt a strange, comforting rhythm, a quiet pulse that seemed to match her own heartbeat.
Even as a two-month-old, a sense of instinctive curiosity and awareness had begun to stir within her. She could feel the weight of the world, the texture of life, and the gentle assurance of being cared for. It was enough for now.
The world outside was vast, filled with wonders, mysteries, and life she could not yet understand. Yet for the first time in her existence, she felt truly alive. Her story had just begun, and the path ahead, though unknown, carried a promise: that one day, she would grow, learn, and find her place in this new world.