Two Years Later
Konoha Year: 35
The seasons turned gently in the Hidden Leaf Village, painting the streets with the quiet beauty of change. One year melted into the next, spring's blush into summer's laughter, autumn's amber hush into winter's slow sleep. And through each season, Haruki Arai grew.
From the soft, sleeping bundle brought home on a breezy April day, he transformed, slowly but surely, into a boy with wide eyes and wonder stitched into every breath.
Kenji remembered the first time Haruki smiled—not just a reflexive twitch, but a true, sunlit grin. He'd been blowing gently on the boy's belly, imitating the rumbling "brrrr" of a frog, and suddenly there it was: a smile that stopped the world. Mika had been sitting nearby, watching from the edge of the tatami mat with a damp cloth in hand. Her laugh then had matched Haruki's giggle perfectly, the two sounds twining together like wind chimes on a summer porch.
Now, at two years old, Haruki had taken his first real steps, and nothing in the house stayed still anymore.
"No, Haruki, don't climb the shelves!" Mika called out one late morning, her hands dusted with flour as she leaned around the kitchen doorframe.
But the boy was already halfway up the first layer of storage crates stacked near his father's low pottery shelves, his little fingers reaching for the wooden toad figure perched on top. He let out a proud, squeaky "Mmm!" as he grabbed it, then promptly sat down with a thump, figure in hand and cheeks puffed in triumph.
Kenji looked over from the spinning wheel, clay slick between his fingers. "He's going to break every single thing I've ever made, isn't he?"
"Only the ones within reach," Mika replied with a grin, brushing her hands on her apron as she came over. She scooped Haruki up and kissed his temple. He wriggled in her arms, babbling something that sounded like "tohd!" as he waved the wooden frog victoriously.
Haruki's words were still a work in progress, but they were coming faster by the week. "Tohd" was "frog." "Maa" meant mother, "da" meant father, and "mmm-nee" was either "food" or "more," depending on the situation. He had a favorite blanket that he dragged from room to room, and every morning, he would toddle up to the paper window screen and push it open, staring out into the village with serious, observant eyes.
He was fascinated by the world.
By butterflies fluttering around the garden herbs. By the sound of passing ninja on the rooftops. By the way his father shaped cups and bowls from lumps of nothing. He once sat completely still for over twenty minutes, watching Kenji glaze a tea cup with thin blue spirals, breath held as if he might shatter the moment.
"He's already got your hands," Mika said one night as she and Kenji watched Haruki sleep, one pudgy hand splayed on his belly, the other clutching the edge of his blanket.
Kenji chuckled softly. "And your stubbornness. He'll try to walk through walls one day, mark my words."
"He'll build doors instead," she said with a smile, resting her head on Kenji's shoulder. "We'll show him how."
Their home wasn't large, two rooms and a workshop, but it was filled with warmth, with laughter and the scent of fresh earth and woodsmoke. Kenji's pottery sold well enough in the market square, especially when the visiting ninja from other villages came looking for handmade gifts. Mika, once a tailor's apprentice, had taken up sewing again in the evenings, stitching tiny jackets and mittens for Haruki, often leaving her needlework half-finished because of a well-timed giggle or cry.
Evenings were the best time.
Haruki would crawl into Kenji's lap while Mika read aloud from scrolls or storybooks. Sometimes the boy would sit enraptured by tales of brave warriors and great beasts. Other times, he'd babble and point at the pictures, naming the animals or making his own sounds, "Gwoo!" for dragons, "Wa!" for horses. And sometimes, when he was tired and full of rice and miso, he'd curl up with his head on Mika's knee, eyelids fluttering closed like flower petals at dusk.
There was no chakra in him, no flash of jutsu, no extraordinary gift. But Kenji and Mika never looked for those things.
Haruki was their miracle already.
Sometimes, Kenji caught passing glances from shinobi families as they strolled through the market square or gathered at the training fields. Their children were already learning hand signs, already throwing tiny kunai into practice logs. He felt a quiet ache in his chest, wondering if Haruki would one day wish for something more.
But then he'd look at his son, who squatted near the pond to talk to frogs, who gave flowers to old neighbors, who helped brush clay dust from his father's knees with solemn pride, and he'd know.
Haruki would be more than enough, in his own way.
On Haruki's second birthday, the three of them picnicked beneath a cherry blossom tree near the Naka River. Mika had packed sweet rice cakes and salted fish, and Kenji had crafted a small toy top out of painted ceramic.
Haruki laughed as the petals danced around him, his chubby fingers chasing the falling pink flakes. He turned, lifted his arms toward Mika, and said clearly: "Mama."
Mika froze, hands over her mouth. Her eyes shimmered.
Kenji chuckled softly. "He has said it before, you know."
"But not like that," she whispered. "Not so clear."
Haruki looked up at her, confused, then smiled and turned to Kenji. "Dada."
Kenji lifted him high into the air, spinning him once. Haruki squealed, kicking his legs.
"I love you, little sprout," Kenji murmured, pulling him close.
Haruki laid his head on his father's shoulder, fingers tangled in Kenji's robe, eyes drifting shut.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting golden light over the river and the rooftops of the village beyond, the Arai family sat quietly under the petals, hearts full.
In a world where destinies were often written in bloodlines and battle scrolls, Haruki's story was still being written, softly, lovingly, word by word.
And perhaps that was its own kind of power.