Konoha Year: 33
The afternoon sun filtered gently through the white-curtained windows of the Hidden Leaf Village Hospital, casting soft beams across the room. Outside, life buzzed with its usual rhythm -vendors shouting, shinobi leaping between rooftops, the distant ring of kunais clattering. But inside Room 14 on the maternity floor, time slowed to a whisper.
Then, it happened.
A sharp cry rang out.
It wasn't loud, not piercing, but strong, full of life and newness, untainted by fear or sorrow. It filled the quiet space like sunlight slipping into a dark room, casting everything in warmth.
"He's here," one of the nurses said with a smile, wrapping the newborn in a soft white blanket embroidered with tiny green leaves. Her voice was hushed and reverent, as though this were not just a delivery but a miracle.
Kenji Arai stood frozen by the bedside, his hand still wrapped around his wife's limp, sweat-slick fingers. His heart, which had thundered for the past ten hours like a stampede of wild deer, finally slowed.
Mika, his wife, turned her head slowly. Exhaustion etched deep into her face, her usually neat bangs clinging to her temples. But her eyes, her soft brown eyes, were wide and full of wonder.
"Kenji…" she whispered.
He didn't answer right away. He was still watching as the nurse brought their child closer, cradled like something both fragile and infinite. The baby's face was red, his tiny fists curled, his cries already fading to little hiccups and sniffs.
The world could have ended outside that hospital room, and Kenji wouldn't have noticed.
The nurse gently placed the baby into Mika's arms. Her hands trembled, but her grip was sure. She drew the baby close, pressing her lips to his forehead with a breathless laugh that was half a sob.
"He's perfect," she said.
Kenji stepped closer, his movements stiff and uncertain. He was not a shinobi, not trained for high-pressure moments, he was a potter, a craftsman, more used to shaping clay than cradling life. But as he looked at the small bundle in his wife's arms, something deep inside him shifted. He knelt beside the bed and leaned in close, one hand reaching out instinctively to brush the baby's cheek.
It was warm.
Soft.
So real.
The child squirmed at the touch, his nose scrunching in protest, but he didn't cry.
"What do we name him?" Mika asked, her voice still hoarse from the effort of labor.
Kenji stared at his son, searching the tiny face for answers—there were none, only newness. He thought of names passed down by his father and grandfather, old traditions, and family expectations. But none of them felt right.
A breeze stirred the curtain beside the window, carrying with it the faint scent of plum blossoms. Spring had only just arrived in Konoha, early this year.
"…Haruki," Kenji said. "Spring child."
Mika smiled. "Haruki Arai."
The baby let out a soft sigh, as if approving of the name.
Kenji exhaled, finally letting go of all the tension he'd held for hours. He leaned forward, kissing Mika's temple, then rested his forehead against hers. They stayed like that a moment, a quiet circle of three.
"We're not shinobi," Mika murmured. "He won't have chakra to mold or a clan name to carry."
Kenji nodded. "But we'll raise him right. With love. That's enough."
Outside, the world moved on—mission reports being filed, ANBU passing like shadows, children training in the Academy courtyard. But in Room 14, nothing else mattered.
Haruki stirred again, this time opening his eyes—dark, round, curious. He stared up at the ceiling, at the blurry shapes of his parents, at the quiet new world.
Kenji watched him, heart swelling with something beyond pride, beyond relief. It was purpose. It was love.
"I wonder what kind of boy he'll be," he whispered.
"A kind one," Mika said. "Maybe stubborn. Definitely loud."
Kenji chuckled. "With our luck, he'll want to be a shinobi after all."
Mika rolled her eyes, but her smile never faded. "Even if he does… we'll be here. No matter what."
The nurse returned after a while to check on them, gently taking Haruki for a quick weigh and examination. Mika leaned back, exhausted but content, while Kenji sat beside her, their fingers still entwined.
"Do you think the Hokage ever notices these kinds of moments?" he asked quietly.
Mika tilted her head. "What do you mean?"
"Just… so many shinobi. So many stories that start with grand prophecies or clan rivalries or some hidden power awakening. But Haruki… he's just a boy. Our boy."
Mika looked at him and smiled. "That's exactly what makes it special."
As the nurse brought Haruki back, now swaddled tighter and yawning with all the drama of someone much older, Kenji accepted him into his arms.
The baby was quiet now, eyes half-lidded, breathing steadily.
Kenji stood and walked slowly to the window. Below, the Hidden Leaf bustled on—shops opening for the evening crowd, shinobi returning from missions, children darting through the street in a game of tag. The Hokage Monument looked on from above, its faces carved into stone, watching over them all.
Kenji didn't know what kind of future awaited his son in this village built by strength, guarded by power, and often stained by loss.
But in that moment, with the spring breeze brushing his cheek and his newborn son tucked against his chest, he didn't need to know.
He only knew this,
Haruki Arai had been born.
And that was the beginning of everything.