Under the eaves of a weathered courtyard in Konoha, an old man sat in his wheelchair, basking in the warm afternoon sun. His eyes, clouded with age, were half-closed in drowsiness when a gentle voice drifted from inside the house.
"Grandpa, were you a ninja before?"
The old man stirred, blinking away his lethargy. He hesitated for a moment before scoffing, "Hmph. Ever heard of the Sanhe clan?"
As soon as the words left his mouth, his expression darkened. His gaze drifted toward the overgrown garden, lost in thought.
"You probably haven't. Because now... I'm the only one left."
His voice was laced with quiet sorrow.
"The Sanhe clan was once a renowned samurai family. But when ninjutsu became dominant, many of our people transitioned into shinobi. By the time of the Warring States period, only a handful of us remained. When the First Hokage established Konoha, I was the last of my bloodline.
Then the First Great Ninja War came, and... my wife and son perished on the battlefield. I was lucky—if you can call losing your legs lucky."
As people age, their memories become their closest companions, and once they begin speaking of the past, it's hard to stop. When the old man finally paused, he glanced toward the doorway, feeling as if he had spoken too much.
Yet, Uchiha Tunan's voice remained gentle and unwavering.
"You must have been very strong back then."
The old man straightened his back slightly, a flicker of pride in his wrinkled face.
"Of course! I was once an Anbu squad captain. Led my team on S-rank missions."
He chuckled bitterly and patted his crippled legs.
"But war is cruel… it takes everything from you."
Inside the room, Uchiha Tunan carefully placed the last item in the cabinet. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. His face was unreadable as he picked up a cloth and headed toward the washroom.
However, as soon as he opened the door, he froze.
The toilet was in an appalling state—filth caked every surface, and an unbearable stench filled the air. Judging by the grime, the plumbing must have been clogged for years.
Uchiha Tunan's sharp mind pieced things together instantly. The old man's stinginess, his insistence on hiring ninja for such a menial task—it wasn't just about money.
Behind him, the old man wheeled closer, clearing his throat awkwardly.
"Ahem... Kid, you know abandoning a mission leaves a record on your ninja resume, right?"
Uchiha Tunan turned, his expression calm as always.
"Grandpa, do you have a plunger?"
The old man blinked. "No."
Tunan nodded, then gave a polite bow. "Please wait a moment."
With that, he left the courtyard.
Minutes later, he returned, carrying a plunger and cleaning supplies. Without hesitation, he got to work.
The old man watched in silence. There was no sign of hesitation or disgust on the young shinobi's face—only quiet diligence.
As Tunan scrubbed away years of neglect, something in the old man's expression softened.
By the time Uchiha Tunan finished, the room smelled of fresh wood polish. Every surface gleamed under the daylight. He walked over to the old man, bowed respectfully, and said, "I've completed the cleaning. Please inspect it."
The old man's eyes flickered to the young shinobi's once-spotless white shirt, now wrinkled and stained. A twinge of guilt crept into his chest.
"You did well," he muttered.
Uchiha Tunan smiled and handed over the mission form.
The old man signed it without hesitation. Then, after a long pause, he pulled out the two thousand ryō that Kakashi had paid earlier. His fingers lingered over the money before he grumbled and stuffed it into Tunan's hands.
"Here. A tip. Just take it and go."
Tunan's eyes widened slightly before his usual warm smile returned.
"Grandpa, you're too kind. I'll thank you on Kakashi's behalf."
With a final bow, he left for the Hokage Building.
After he disappeared down the street, the old man sighed and rolled his wheelchair into the bedroom. He pulled a dust-covered picture frame from the bedside table and traced a trembling finger over the glass.
Inside the frame was an old photograph of a happy family of three.
"If Jumaru were still alive, he would've had a great-grandson by now," he murmured.
Shaking off his thoughts, he wheeled himself to the kitchen. Opening the fridge, he found only a few leftover rice balls from the morning.
Since losing his family, he had become reclusive. And with his reputation as a miser, the neighbors rarely visited. He sighed, picking up the cold rice balls, planning to wait for them to defrost before eating.
Just as he settled back in his wheelchair, the silence of the afternoon was broken by a knock at the door.
"Who is it?" he called out.
No answer—just another series of knocks.
The old man frowned, rolling his chair toward the door. As he placed his hand on the handle, the knocking stopped abruptly.
Cautiously, he swung the door open.
Sunlight flooded the entrance.
Standing there was Uchiha Tunan, both arms full of groceries. He smiled, his expression warm like the first breeze of spring.
"When I was cleaning, I noticed you didn't have much to eat. It must be difficult for you to go shopping alone, so I picked up some ingredients for you."
The old man was momentarily stunned. Then, shaking his head, he said, "I appreciate it, kid, but I don't need charity."
His tone was firm, but Uchiha Tunan's smile didn't waver.
"I already bought them, and it would be a shame to let them go to waste. How about this? I'll cook, and we can eat together. I live alone, too, so it'd be nice to have some company."
The old man's lips parted slightly, as if to refuse, but after a brief hesitation, he muttered, "Do as you like."
Tunan's smile widened. Stepping inside, he gently took the old man's cold rice balls and tossed them into the trash.
"These aren't nutritious. Let me make something better."
He moved to the kitchen, tied an apron around his waist, and got to work.
The rhythmic sound of chopping filled the small house.
"Da-da-da-da…"
For the first time in years, the house no longer felt empty.