Akio woke before sunrise to the familiar hush of the village, a silence that echoed in every wooden beam and empty walkway. The morning air was crisp and still, carrying the faint scent of dew on old rooftops. He could almost feel the heartbeat of the place, slow and dulled by the lack of activity. Sometimes, that silence weighed on him like a heavy shroud, and this day, more than most, he found it suffocating. He rose from his futon, pushing aside thin blankets and blinking to clear his sleep-blurred vision. Outside his window, the pale light of dawn did its best to illuminate the narrow streets, but shadows still clung to every corner. Akio's breath hitched in his throat for an instant as he recalled the nights spent gazing at the stars with Kiriyomi, his old friend from the academy. They would huddle together after classes, wrapped in laughter and eager musings about their future. Now, nothing but loneliness stretched out ahead, and the sensation of emptiness in the pit of his stomach convinced him that he needed to escape, if only for a few hours. He decided to head into the forest, where the whisper of the wind through the branches might offer some reprieve from the hollow quiet of the village.
He set out on foot, not bothering to inform anyone of his departure, and not really expecting anyone to notice either. The path leading away from the cluster of homes was lined with patches of grass that had been trampled by decades of travelers. Sunlight slowly crept over the horizon, turning the sky from a muted gray to a pale gold. Each step he took away from the village brought a tiny measure of relief, as though a tight band around his chest loosened just a bit. He knew this forest well, having roamed its depths countless times during his academy days. Back then, it was a place of life and bright possibility, a puzzle waiting to be solved by curious minds. Kiriyomi had often challenged him to races between the old trees, or proposed quiet hunts for small creatures that scattered at the first hint of footsteps. Akio tried to shake off the memory, not wanting to dredge up the ache that always followed thoughts of Kiri, but it was impossible. The more he tried to focus on the rustling leaves underfoot, the more vividly Kiri's image formed at the forefront of his mind. That grin, friendly and warm, lingered in his memory and refused to fade.
As he ventured deeper into the woods, the early morning light filtered through the thick canopy above, creating a patchwork of brightness and shadow on the ground. Birds called out in the distance, their melodies bringing a faint smile to Akio's lips. He felt a pang of gratitude for the forest's solace, remembering how it had always been a sanctuary for him, for both of them. The hush of the trees, the soft chorus of rustling bushes, it all felt like a gentle lullaby. Yet, in the very next breath, he was reminded that these were the same trees he and Kiri had once navigated on a memorable afternoon when neither of them wanted to return to the academy. They had spent hours, lost in the woods after chasing a rogue butterfly that Kiri's favorite ant had injured. Kiri's eyes had sparkled that day, seeing nature like that. Until he got back home, that is, and learned about the fate of his father. That memory, once a pleasant snippet, now caused a tension in Akio's heart, for the elder Aburame was gone, and Kiri was gone as well. Akio still felt guilt for it. Even now, he wasn't sure that Kiri ever fully forgave him for being the one to suggest he go out the day his father was killed. Now that Kiriyomi was gone too, he'd never know. Still, being his optimistic self, Akio tried to focus on the positive memories. He could almost hear Kiri's laughter echo through the trunks, encouraging him onward. The faint echo taunted him, urging him to walk faster, to find some meaning in these reminders of what once was.
Eventually, he came upon a faint trail cutting through the undergrowth. It wasn't well-trodden and looked to be a path formed mostly by animals rather than human feet. For a moment, Akio hesitated, uncertain if he should abandon the main path for this narrower, wilder route. Something about it tugged at him, though, pulling him forward as though an unseen force wanted him to see what lay beyond the thick brush. His heart pounded a little harder with each step. The branches overhead intertwined, casting an almost ethereal green light across his face. The soil beneath his sandals grew softer, covered in fallen leaves that crunched quietly under his weight. With each rustle, the forest seemed to breathe, to come alive. It was a comforting presence, yet it also made him distinctly aware of his solitary state. He realized how few people roamed these parts, how rare it was to encounter another soul out here in the early morning. That knowledge, oddly enough, filled him with both a sense of calm and a stab of loneliness.
After some time, the trail opened into a wide clearing unlike any Akio had seen before. The forest parted to reveal a circle of sunlight where the grass grew tall and swayed gently in a morning breeze that carried the cool scent of pine and fresh earth. Wildflowers splashed the green with bursts of yellow, red, and purple, dancing on slender stems as though celebrating the dawn. A soft hush fell over Akio as he stepped forward, absorbing the scenery with a kind of reverence. This spot felt secret and sacred, a world apart from the rest of the forest. The subtle shift in the air wrapped around him, reminding him of something he couldn't quite place at first. Then, with a pang of memory, he recalled a similar clearing he and Kiri had discovered years ago. That clearing had not been quite as large or as vibrant as this one, but they had stumbled upon it during an aimless trek, both of them breathless with wonder and excitement. They had named it their secret retreat, promising to return whenever they needed a break from the academy's demands or from life itself. Now, standing alone, Akio felt that same awe, that same sense of discovery, followed immediately by an aching absence.
He knelt down at the edge of the clearing and gingerly grazed his fingertips across the velvety petals of a flower. For a moment, he closed his eyes and imagined that day it so clearly that he could hear Kiri's voice, playful and comforting all at once. The memory was both a balm and a dagger. It soothed Akio with the reminder of companionship and laughter, then cut him to the core with the realization that those moments had slipped away like smoke through his fingers. He remembered Kiri's devastated look when news of his father's passing reached him. He remembered how the light seemed to dim in Kiri's eyes at the funeral, how the once vibrant boy appeared hollowed out by grief. Akio had tried to help, but there were no words that could truly mend a wound of that magnitude. The memory of Kiri's tears was clear and sharp, but so was the recollection of his own helplessness.
As he stood there, he fought back the rising tide of emotion by breathing slowly, counting each inhale and exhale until his heart stopped pounding so fiercely. Yet the memories refused to be contained. They swarmed around his consciousness, reminding him of the emptiness in the village and the silence that awaited him when he returned. He flashed back to the last time he saw Kiri, the day of the exam. Kiri's face had carried a quiet determination, a mixture of sadness and resolve that seemed permanent after the loss of his father. But he still remained his friend, all the way through. They'd dreamed of the kind of team they might make when they became full fledged shinobi. Now, Kiri was gone from his life, leaving behind a void that resounded each day in the quiet corners of Akio's mind. The forest reminded him of that loss at every turn, each familiar landmark now touched by the memory of times spent together.
Without warning, the emotions he had been painstakingly holding in check broke free, overwhelming him with their intensity. He sank to his knees in the tall grass, tears starting to slip down his cheeks. At first, it was just a few stray drops, but as he let himself revisit the tender ache of Kiri's despair over losing his father, the tears rolled in earnest. The clearing, so beautiful and serene, blurred before his gaze, and he choked out a sob that he hadn't even realized he was holding back. All the loneliness that had built up in the silent village, all the remnants of a fractured bond, all the unspoken fears for the future, swirled inside him like a storm. He gasped at the force of it, clutching at the ground as though it were the only solid thing in his world. He could still see Kiri's eyes, dark and deep, brimming with tears when he spoke about his father, when he whispered that the world felt different without that guiding presence. Now Akio understood that sense of wrenching difference all too well. Life after waking up, after finding out about his friends, felt... untethered.
Minutes passed, though it could have been hours for all Akio knew. Gradually, his sobs quieted, and he was left with a hollow ache in his chest and damp trails on his cheeks that the breeze cooled. He remained kneeling, staring at the grass, and tried to piece together the scattering of thoughts swirling in his mind. Even after so much time, he realized that he hadn't allowed himself to fully grieve. He had attempted to move forward, to continue living as though the solitude of the village wasn't crushing. But his heart yearned for something beyond the echoing emptiness, and his mind clung desperately to the times when Kiri stood beside him, facing challenges together. Those moments were gone. Accepting that felt like trying to swallow shards of broken glass, painful and almost impossible. In that clearing, however, he began to suspect that the only way forward was through the grief itself. By letting himself cry, the young Senju had recognized the depth of his sorrow, and though it seemed as vast as the forest, perhaps it would guide him to a place of acceptance in time.
When he finally rose to his feet, he brushed the clinging blades of grass from his knees and wiped the last of his tears from his face. He surveyed the clearing once more, letting the gentle sway of flowers in the breeze remind him that life still went on, that there was beauty even in the midst of pain. A part of him wished that Kiri were there to see this place, to marvel at it with the same childlike wonder he had once possessed. Another part of him understood that those days of shared wonder had ended, and the best he could do was honor that memory by carrying it with him. Standing in the clearing, the breeze playing with his hair, he let out a long breath of release. The forest around him seemed to exhale as well, as though sharing in his grief. He wasn't certain where he would go from here. Perhaps he would return to the village and face the silence with a heavier yet more honest heart. Perhaps he would wander deeper into the forest to lose himself in nature's quiet for a while. Whatever path he chose, he felt that a shift had occurred within him. The loneliness still pressed upon him like a lingering shadow, but now he had confronted it in some small way. He had cried for Kiri's father then, and now he cried for Kiri, for his other friends, for his grandfather, for all the moments that remained so precious in his memories. It was the first time he really experienced loss. And now, with the world the way he found it after awakening from his slumber, Akio was faced with more of it than the young Senju thought he could possibly stand. But still, there was a catharsis in the reverence, a peace that came in accepting that it hurt, that it would always hurt, and that it was okay to let it out. There, in that hidden clearing, Akio had begun to mourn the life that once was, and in doing so, had taken a step toward whatever came next. As he wiped away his tears, these words echoed within Akio's grieving mind. "For you, Kiri."
[WC] 2151
He set out on foot, not bothering to inform anyone of his departure, and not really expecting anyone to notice either. The path leading away from the cluster of homes was lined with patches of grass that had been trampled by decades of travelers. Sunlight slowly crept over the horizon, turning the sky from a muted gray to a pale gold. Each step he took away from the village brought a tiny measure of relief, as though a tight band around his chest loosened just a bit. He knew this forest well, having roamed its depths countless times during his academy days. Back then, it was a place of life and bright possibility, a puzzle waiting to be solved by curious minds. Kiriyomi had often challenged him to races between the old trees, or proposed quiet hunts for small creatures that scattered at the first hint of footsteps. Akio tried to shake off the memory, not wanting to dredge up the ache that always followed thoughts of Kiri, but it was impossible. The more he tried to focus on the rustling leaves underfoot, the more vividly Kiri's image formed at the forefront of his mind. That grin, friendly and warm, lingered in his memory and refused to fade.
As he ventured deeper into the woods, the early morning light filtered through the thick canopy above, creating a patchwork of brightness and shadow on the ground. Birds called out in the distance, their melodies bringing a faint smile to Akio's lips. He felt a pang of gratitude for the forest's solace, remembering how it had always been a sanctuary for him, for both of them. The hush of the trees, the soft chorus of rustling bushes, it all felt like a gentle lullaby. Yet, in the very next breath, he was reminded that these were the same trees he and Kiri had once navigated on a memorable afternoon when neither of them wanted to return to the academy. They had spent hours, lost in the woods after chasing a rogue butterfly that Kiri's favorite ant had injured. Kiri's eyes had sparkled that day, seeing nature like that. Until he got back home, that is, and learned about the fate of his father. That memory, once a pleasant snippet, now caused a tension in Akio's heart, for the elder Aburame was gone, and Kiri was gone as well. Akio still felt guilt for it. Even now, he wasn't sure that Kiri ever fully forgave him for being the one to suggest he go out the day his father was killed. Now that Kiriyomi was gone too, he'd never know. Still, being his optimistic self, Akio tried to focus on the positive memories. He could almost hear Kiri's laughter echo through the trunks, encouraging him onward. The faint echo taunted him, urging him to walk faster, to find some meaning in these reminders of what once was.
Eventually, he came upon a faint trail cutting through the undergrowth. It wasn't well-trodden and looked to be a path formed mostly by animals rather than human feet. For a moment, Akio hesitated, uncertain if he should abandon the main path for this narrower, wilder route. Something about it tugged at him, though, pulling him forward as though an unseen force wanted him to see what lay beyond the thick brush. His heart pounded a little harder with each step. The branches overhead intertwined, casting an almost ethereal green light across his face. The soil beneath his sandals grew softer, covered in fallen leaves that crunched quietly under his weight. With each rustle, the forest seemed to breathe, to come alive. It was a comforting presence, yet it also made him distinctly aware of his solitary state. He realized how few people roamed these parts, how rare it was to encounter another soul out here in the early morning. That knowledge, oddly enough, filled him with both a sense of calm and a stab of loneliness.
After some time, the trail opened into a wide clearing unlike any Akio had seen before. The forest parted to reveal a circle of sunlight where the grass grew tall and swayed gently in a morning breeze that carried the cool scent of pine and fresh earth. Wildflowers splashed the green with bursts of yellow, red, and purple, dancing on slender stems as though celebrating the dawn. A soft hush fell over Akio as he stepped forward, absorbing the scenery with a kind of reverence. This spot felt secret and sacred, a world apart from the rest of the forest. The subtle shift in the air wrapped around him, reminding him of something he couldn't quite place at first. Then, with a pang of memory, he recalled a similar clearing he and Kiri had discovered years ago. That clearing had not been quite as large or as vibrant as this one, but they had stumbled upon it during an aimless trek, both of them breathless with wonder and excitement. They had named it their secret retreat, promising to return whenever they needed a break from the academy's demands or from life itself. Now, standing alone, Akio felt that same awe, that same sense of discovery, followed immediately by an aching absence.
He knelt down at the edge of the clearing and gingerly grazed his fingertips across the velvety petals of a flower. For a moment, he closed his eyes and imagined that day it so clearly that he could hear Kiri's voice, playful and comforting all at once. The memory was both a balm and a dagger. It soothed Akio with the reminder of companionship and laughter, then cut him to the core with the realization that those moments had slipped away like smoke through his fingers. He remembered Kiri's devastated look when news of his father's passing reached him. He remembered how the light seemed to dim in Kiri's eyes at the funeral, how the once vibrant boy appeared hollowed out by grief. Akio had tried to help, but there were no words that could truly mend a wound of that magnitude. The memory of Kiri's tears was clear and sharp, but so was the recollection of his own helplessness.
As he stood there, he fought back the rising tide of emotion by breathing slowly, counting each inhale and exhale until his heart stopped pounding so fiercely. Yet the memories refused to be contained. They swarmed around his consciousness, reminding him of the emptiness in the village and the silence that awaited him when he returned. He flashed back to the last time he saw Kiri, the day of the exam. Kiri's face had carried a quiet determination, a mixture of sadness and resolve that seemed permanent after the loss of his father. But he still remained his friend, all the way through. They'd dreamed of the kind of team they might make when they became full fledged shinobi. Now, Kiri was gone from his life, leaving behind a void that resounded each day in the quiet corners of Akio's mind. The forest reminded him of that loss at every turn, each familiar landmark now touched by the memory of times spent together.
Without warning, the emotions he had been painstakingly holding in check broke free, overwhelming him with their intensity. He sank to his knees in the tall grass, tears starting to slip down his cheeks. At first, it was just a few stray drops, but as he let himself revisit the tender ache of Kiri's despair over losing his father, the tears rolled in earnest. The clearing, so beautiful and serene, blurred before his gaze, and he choked out a sob that he hadn't even realized he was holding back. All the loneliness that had built up in the silent village, all the remnants of a fractured bond, all the unspoken fears for the future, swirled inside him like a storm. He gasped at the force of it, clutching at the ground as though it were the only solid thing in his world. He could still see Kiri's eyes, dark and deep, brimming with tears when he spoke about his father, when he whispered that the world felt different without that guiding presence. Now Akio understood that sense of wrenching difference all too well. Life after waking up, after finding out about his friends, felt... untethered.
Minutes passed, though it could have been hours for all Akio knew. Gradually, his sobs quieted, and he was left with a hollow ache in his chest and damp trails on his cheeks that the breeze cooled. He remained kneeling, staring at the grass, and tried to piece together the scattering of thoughts swirling in his mind. Even after so much time, he realized that he hadn't allowed himself to fully grieve. He had attempted to move forward, to continue living as though the solitude of the village wasn't crushing. But his heart yearned for something beyond the echoing emptiness, and his mind clung desperately to the times when Kiri stood beside him, facing challenges together. Those moments were gone. Accepting that felt like trying to swallow shards of broken glass, painful and almost impossible. In that clearing, however, he began to suspect that the only way forward was through the grief itself. By letting himself cry, the young Senju had recognized the depth of his sorrow, and though it seemed as vast as the forest, perhaps it would guide him to a place of acceptance in time.
When he finally rose to his feet, he brushed the clinging blades of grass from his knees and wiped the last of his tears from his face. He surveyed the clearing once more, letting the gentle sway of flowers in the breeze remind him that life still went on, that there was beauty even in the midst of pain. A part of him wished that Kiri were there to see this place, to marvel at it with the same childlike wonder he had once possessed. Another part of him understood that those days of shared wonder had ended, and the best he could do was honor that memory by carrying it with him. Standing in the clearing, the breeze playing with his hair, he let out a long breath of release. The forest around him seemed to exhale as well, as though sharing in his grief. He wasn't certain where he would go from here. Perhaps he would return to the village and face the silence with a heavier yet more honest heart. Perhaps he would wander deeper into the forest to lose himself in nature's quiet for a while. Whatever path he chose, he felt that a shift had occurred within him. The loneliness still pressed upon him like a lingering shadow, but now he had confronted it in some small way. He had cried for Kiri's father then, and now he cried for Kiri, for his other friends, for his grandfather, for all the moments that remained so precious in his memories. It was the first time he really experienced loss. And now, with the world the way he found it after awakening from his slumber, Akio was faced with more of it than the young Senju thought he could possibly stand. But still, there was a catharsis in the reverence, a peace that came in accepting that it hurt, that it would always hurt, and that it was okay to let it out. There, in that hidden clearing, Akio had begun to mourn the life that once was, and in doing so, had taken a step toward whatever came next. As he wiped away his tears, these words echoed within Akio's grieving mind. "For you, Kiri."
[WC] 2151
