In what seemed like the dimly lit hall of a modest home, a woman sat across from a young man. Her eyes, swollen and red, glistened with unshed tears.
"I was told my husband's location was leaked," she said, her voice trembling, "He was ambushed... and killed."
The man, no older than his twenties, nodded solemnly. His red hair glowed faintly under the flickering light, and the black cloak he wore seemed to make his pale features all the more somber. "I'm sorry for your loss," he said quietly. "And thank you for sharing this with me. My wife was killed in a similar way."
The woman's face softened in shared grief, her gaze dropping to the table as she nodded. For a moment, the silence between them spoke more than words ever could.
After a heavy pause, the man stood. "I must take my leave now. Thank you for your time."
He reached into the folds of his cloak, retrieving a small bundle of ryo and placing it gently on the table. "Please, take this. It's a small gesture, but you have a son to care for. The village will provide a pension, but this might make things easier in the meantime."
The woman hesitated, her pride urging her to refuse, but the reality of her situation—the sudden loss of her husband, the only breadwinner—made her decision for her. With a small, grateful nod, she accepted the money, clutching it as though it were a lifeline.
The man gave a final nod and turned, leaving the house quietly. As he walked down the narrow streets of the village, his steps echoed softly in the stillness of the evening. Before long, he stopped in front of a small shop. He stood there for a moment, staring at the wooden sign above the door, then pushed it open and disappeared inside.
As soon as Takeru stepped into the shop, the familiar smell of fresh produce filled the air. The shopkeeper, an older man with a friendly grin, greeted him warmly.
"Takeru, here for more vegetables for the restaurant?" the shopkeeper asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yes," Takeru replied, his tone calm but polite. "The same quantity as usual, please."
The shopkeeper nodded. "I'll have someone deliver them to your restaurant shortly."
Takeru smiled briefly in thanks, then turned and left the shop, stepping back into the cool evening. His pace was steady as he made his way down the winding streets toward his home, a small but sturdy house tucked away from the village's main thoroughfare.
When he arrived, he slipped inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. Takeru reached up to undo the button of his black cloak, carefully hanging it on a wooden peg by the door. As the cloak slid off his shoulders, the empty sleeve on his left side swayed gently—revealing the absence of his left arm.
He stood there for a moment, the empty sleeve a silent testament to battles long past, before moving deeper into the house. Takeru entered a small room that served as his study, its sparse furnishings arranged with meticulous care. Sitting at his desk, he removed a small key from the locket around his neck. With deliberate precision, he unlocked a drawer built into the desk.
The drawer was no ordinary compartment. Once, Takeru had been a ninja, and he had crafted this drawer with his own hands, laying traps within it that would destroy its contents if anyone tried to open it by force. The notebook he now held in his hands, weathered but intact, was the reason for such precautions.
He placed the key back in his locket and opened the notebook, its pages filled with notes, plans, and memories of a life most would never know about.
Takeru opened a fresh page in the notebook, his movements slow and deliberate. He pasted the small photo of a male ninja in the top corner and began writing beneath it. The ninja in the photo was the same one he had inquired about earlier, during his visit to the grieving woman just half an hour ago.
As he wrote, his thoughts grew heavier. This is the 120th case, he mused. Another ninja, once part of the Senju Clan, killed after their location was leaked. Ever since the Senju were integrated into the civilian population and gave up their surname, their numbers have been silently falling.
Once he finished documenting the details of this latest death, Takeru turned back to the first page of the notebook. There, pinned in the center, was the photo of a woman. Her smile was warm, radiant, her face framed by soft strands of dark hair. She looked so alive. Takeru's heart tightened as he gently caressed the photograph.
"Yumi," he whispered, his voice filled with a tenderness that hadn't dulled with time. "Our daughter is ten years old now. I can't hold her back any longer."
He paused, his gaze drifting away from the photo. "I've delayed her for two years already. She wanted to graduate from the academy then, but I stopped her. I couldn't let her follow the same path—not after you." His hand instinctively moved to his left shoulder, where his arm had once been.
Eleven years ago, Takeru had been a Chunin, newly assigned to Yumi's team. She had been a Jonin—skilled, admired, a leader. He remembered that fateful mission like it was yesterday. He had lost his left arm that day, saving her from an ambush. The injury ended his career as a ninja, but it had also brought them closer. Out of guilt, Yumi had visited him often. Those visits had blossomed into something deeper, something neither of them could deny.