"Tatsu," a soft voice called.
He turned his head.
A woman stood behind him, wearing simple house clothes. Her long blue hair was tied loosely behind her back. Orange eyes calm and quiet. In her hands, a small teacup.
He took it from her gently. "Thanks, Kona."
She said nothing, only walked over and sat beside him. Slowly, she leaned into him, her head resting on his shoulder. Her arms wrapped around his.
They both looked out the window. The night sky was clear, the moon glowing full and bright above the trees.
"Isn't the moon beautiful tonight?" she asked softly.
Tatsu nodded, holding the cup between his hands.
"Yeah," he said. "It is."
---
Thirteen Years Ago
Tatsu wasn't born in this world.
He remembered dying — the pain, the darkness, and then… waking up somewhere else. Somewhere he had only seen in stories and screens. The world of Naruto.
He had transmigrated.
But this wasn't some game. He had no powers. No chakra. No bloodline. Just the memories of a normal life, and the knowledge of what this world was like.
He ended up near the Hidden Rain — Amegakure — but not inside it. Just outside, in a small, quiet village where people didn't talk about ninjas. They worked in fields and prayed for dry skies.
Tatsu stayed there. He acted like a lost traveler. No one asked much. He worked small jobs. Ate what he could. Slept in a broken-down shed.
He stayed hidden, hoping this world would ignore him.
Then came the storm.
One night, the sky roared with thunder. Real thunder — not just Amegakure's endless drizzle. On his way home, near an old riverbank, he saw something lying in the mud.
A person.
A woman, barely alive.
Her body was covered in blood. Her cloak — black with red clouds — was torn apart. Her long blue hair stuck to her face. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was shallow.
Tatsu froze. He knew that face.
Konan.
She was supposed to be dead. Killed by Tobi, forgotten by the world. But somehow, she had survived.
He could have walked away.
But he didn't.
He carried her back to his home. Used herbs and clean water. Bandaged her wounds. Sat beside her day after day. She didn't wake up.
Weeks turned into months.
Then a year.
Then two.
She stayed unconscious for three years.
Still, he kept taking care of her. He didn't know why. Maybe because he saw someone who had nothing left — just like him.
Sometimes, he would talk to her. Tell her stories. Say random things about Earth. Or about how strange this world was. He didn't know if she could hear him.
Then, one morning, she opened her eyes.
No panic. No fear. Just calm silence.
He asked her name. She said only one word:
"Kona."
He didn't question it.
He already knew who she was. But if she wanted a new name, a new life — he would let her have it.
She could barely walk. He helped her stand. Helped her eat. Helped her heal. She never asked where she was. Never talked about her past.
And still… she stayed.
---
The Ten Years After That
They didn't talk about the war.
They didn't talk about Nagato, or Yahiko, or the Akatsuki.
They lived simply.
Tatsu worked in the village. Kona helped around the house. She grew vegetables, cooked meals, folded paper into tiny butterflies that fluttered through the air when she thought no one was watching.
Sometimes, she would sit and stare at the rain.
She never said thank you. But she never left his side.
People in the village assumed they were husband and wife. Tatsu didn't correct them. Neither did she.
One evening, after a quiet dinner, she looked at him and said,
"Do you want to call this home… together?"
He said yes.
Two years later, they were married.
And Konan — or Kona — finally found something she had lost long ago:
Peace.
- Present
The breeze slipped through the open window, rustling the paper butterflies on the sill.
Kona stayed close, her chin resting lightly on his shoulder, fingers tracing slow circles on his arm.
- Morning -
The soft clink of dishes. The smell of rice cooking.
Tatsu blinked awake to the sound of Kona moving through the kitchen, quiet as ever. Sunlight filtered in through the windows. The butterflies on the sill didn't move. Just shadows now, resting like everything else.
He rubbed his face, sat up from where they had fallen asleep by the window.
"You're up early," he said, voice rough from sleep.
Kona didn't look back. "You say that every morning."
He stood, stretched, walked over, and leaned lightly against the doorframe.
"You didn't wake me," he added.
"I tried." She glanced at him. "You didn't move."
He smiled. "Must've been comfortable."
Kona didn't answer. She plated some rice, added pickled vegetables, and set it down at the table.
"The festival's today," she said, sitting across from him.
"Yeah," he nodded. "You still not sure about going?"
Kona didn't respond right away. She looked out the window, where early morning mist clung to the trees.
"I don't like crowds," she said. "Too many faces."
"I know."
A pause.
"But," she added, "we can go. If you want."
Tatsu gave a small smile, picked up his chopsticks.
"I'll be with you. That's enough, right?"
She looked at him — not quite smiling, but close.
---
- Afternoon - Festival
The village wasn't huge, but they went all out for this day. Stalls were lined along the main road, lanterns tied to wooden poles swaying in the wind. Smells of grilled food and fresh dough filled the air. Kids ran barefoot between the stalls, faces sticky with syrup.
Kona stood beside him, watching.
She wore a light indigo yukata, the sleeves loose around her wrists. Her hair wasn't done up — just tied in a low, simple knot behind her neck. That was all she would agree to.
"Doesn't feel like war ever touched this place," she said quietly.
"It didn't," Tatsu replied. "And it won't."