The bell above the door chimed.
Ino didn't look up right away. Her hands were busy—trimming stems, aligning petals, wrapping twine just tight enough to look effortless. Muscle memory carried her forward when her thoughts wouldn't.
"Welcome to Yamanaka Flowers," she said automatically, voice bright and practiced. "Let me know if you need help."
The shop smelled the way it always had: clean water, crushed greenery, pollen and sweetness layered together until it felt like breathing color. Sunlight filtered through the front windows, catching dust motes that drifted lazily, harmlessly.
Everything was normal.
That was the problem.
Ino had been opening and closing the shop since the invasion ended. She came early. Stayed late. Counted inventory that hadn't changed. Rearranged displays that didn't need rearranging. Routine was a flotation device, and she was gripping it hard enough to leave fingerprints.
The village outside still sounded wrong. Too quiet in some places. Too loud in others. Laughter that spiked too sharply. Silence that lingered too long.
Here, at least, flowers didn't ask questions.
The bell chimed again.
Ino glanced up, already smiling—and stopped.
Her father stood in the doorway.
Inoichi Yamanaka didn't look like he belonged in a flower shop today. His flak jacket was still on. His hair was tied back sloppily, not his usual neat knot. His eyes carried the faint, unfocused distance of someone who hadn't slept because sleep had become inefficient.
"Dad!" She stepped out from behind the counter. "You didn't say you were coming by. I was just—"
Inoichi reached behind him and pulled the door shut.
Then he turned the sign from OPEN to CLOSED.
Ino blinked. "What—?"
He didn't answer. He walked the length of the shop and, one by one, pulled the blinds down over the windows. The sunlight narrowed into thin bars, then vanished entirely.
The shop dimmed. The air changed.
Ino's smile faltered. "Dad?"
Only then did he look at her.
"Come here," Inoichi said. Not unkindly. Not softly either.
She obeyed without thinking. She always had.
He gestured to the central display table—the one with the rotating seasonal arrangements. Spring colors, carefully curated. Cheerful. Reassuring.
"Tell me what this one says," he said.
Ino frowned. "It's… a congratulatory bouquet? Mixed irises, yellow roses, white filler. For graduations. New beginnings."
Inoichi nodded. "Good. Now watch."
He reached out and adjusted it with small, precise movements. He swapped the yellow roses for pale blue delphinium. Turned the irises inward. Added a sprig of fern she hadn't noticed tucked beneath the wrapping.
He stepped back.
"Now?" he asked.
Ino stared. It still looked pretty. Still harmless.
"Sympathy?" she guessed. "No… maybe… formal? Like something you'd send to someone you don't know well."
Inoichi exhaled through his nose. "It says safe."
Her stomach dropped.
He moved to the next arrangement. Red carnations, baby's breath, ribbon tied just so.
A twist. A different knot. Baby's breath removed entirely.
"Compromised," he said.
He didn't touch the third bouquet. It sat heavy and dark at the end of the table. White lilies. Chrysanthemums. Too much white. Too still.
"Dead drop," Inoichi said.
Ino felt cold spread through her chest.
She looked around the shop again, really looked this time.
At the counter. The shelving.
The back room door she'd run through as a child playing hide-and-seek.
At the places customers lingered to gossip. To chat.
To talk about neighbors and prices and who had married who.
Her childhood playground.
Her throat tightened. "You're saying—"
"I'm saying," Inoichi interrupted gently, "that Yamanaka Flowers has never just sold flowers."
He rested a hand on the counter. The familiar wood. The place she'd done homework.
"This predates the invasion," he continued. "Predates the last war. Predates me, in some ways. Flowers move freely. No one questions them. People talk when they're buying something beautiful."
Ino's hands curled into fists. "So every time I was here—"
"You were safe," Inoichi said immediately. "You were a child."
She laughed, sharp and disbelieving. "Was I?"
He didn't answer that.
Instead, he reached into the register and pulled out a receipt—blank to her eyes. He passed it to her along with a thin brush and a small vial of ink that shimmered faintly.
"Chakra-reactive," he said. "Low-level. It only responds to Yamanaka signatures."
Ino swallowed and took the brush.
"Focus," Inoichi instructed. "Don't push. Just… listen."
She did.
The paper bloomed.
Lines appeared where there had been nothing—numbers rearranging themselves, kanji sliding into place like thoughts surfacing from water. A pattern she hadn't known how to see snapped into focus.
Her breath caught. "That's… that's a route. And a time."
"And a confirmation," Inoichi said. "Or a warning. Or a farewell."
He turned away, busying himself with reorganizing a shelf that didn't need it.
"T&I is struggling," he added, voice level. "Sound used blind-key encryption. Messages only readable by sender and recipient. No residual intent. No mental hook. Nothing for us to crack."
Ino remembered the name Fū. The way people said missing like it was a mercy.
"So you teach me this because…" Her voice wavered.
"Because you're the heir," Inoichi said plainly. "And because I won't lie to you."
The words hit harder than any shout.
Ino pressed her lips together, fighting the urge to run—to Sakura's apartment, to loud arguments and shared meals and the illusion that things could go back.
Her mind slid instead to Team Asuma. To Shikamaru's quiet presence. Chōji's steady warmth. Asuma's voice, calm and grounding.
Family chosen, not coded.
The bell chimed.
Both of them froze.
Inoichi didn't move toward the door. He waited.
A woman stepped inside, face shadowed by the lowered blinds. Purple hair. ANBU bearing even without the mask.
Yugao Uzuki.
"I need white chrysanthemums," Yugao said. Her voice was flat. Controlled. "Three arrangements."
She didn't look at Ino. She placed exact change on the counter.
Inoichi's eyes flicked to the amount. Then to the flowers. Then back.
"Understood," he said.
No condolences were exchanged. None were needed.
As Yugao turned to leave, Ino realized what felt wrong.
Three arrangements.
Not four.
Not five.
"How many messages?" Ino asked before she could stop herself.
Yugao paused.
"Enough," she said.
She left.
The bell chimed again.
Ino's hands shook as she wrapped the bouquets.
They weren't for a grave. They were for a ledger only some people could see.
"I need air," Ino muttered.
She slipped outside before her father could stop her.
The alley beside the shop was narrow and quiet. Trash bins. Cracked stone. The underside of the village she'd never needed to notice.
A boy stood there.
Pale. Slim. Wearing an ANBU mask that didn't quite fit. He knelt on the ground, drawing on a scroll with obsessive focus. Lines precise. Repetitive.
"Hey," Ino said softly. "That's really good."
He didn't look up.
She stepped closer. "What are you drawing?"
Nothing. Not even acknowledgment.
He looked through her, not at her.
A hand closed around her wrist and pulled her back.
"Don't engage," Inoichi said quietly.
The boy didn't react. Didn't flee. Didn't turn.
He just kept drawing.
Inside the shop again, the door shut, blinds still closed, Ino felt something inside her settle and break at the same time.
Necessity didn't care about children.
And necessity, she was beginning to understand, never asked permission.