Haruto stepped out of the hospital doors, the wooden frame creaking slightly as it swung shut behind him. The afternoon sun hung low, casting long shadows across the dirt path that led into the village. His side ached with each breath, a dull throb where the bandages wrapped tight around his ribs. The medic had said it was a clean break, nothing vital hit during the spar, but walking made it feel otherwise. He paused, adjusting the small sack of provisions they'd given him—bandages, a few pills, some dried rations. Enough to last a couple days, if he was careful.
The streets were busy, but not in a way that crowded him. People moved with purpose: a vendor stacking crates of vegetables, a group of kids chasing each other around a corner, their laughter sharp and fleeting. Haruto kept his head down, one hand pressing lightly against his side. His sandals scuffed the ground, kicking up faint dust. He didn't recognize half the faces he passed, but that wasn't new. The village was big enough for that, especially for someone like him—no family, no team to tether him to familiar spots.
By the time he reached his building, sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cooling air. It was a narrow structure tucked between two larger ones, the paint peeling in places where rain had worn it thin. He climbed the stairs slowly, each step pulling at his injury. The door to his apartment was unlocked—he'd forgotten to secure it before the accident, or maybe he just hadn't bothered. Inside, the air smelled stale, like dust and old wood. A single room, with a futon rolled up in the corner, a low table, and a tiny kitchen alcove. The window overlooked an alley, where laundry lines sagged between buildings.
He dropped the sack on the table and eased himself down to sit on the floor. His body protested, muscles stiff from days in a hospital bed. Hunger gnawed at him, not the sharp kind, but a steady emptiness. He hadn't eaten much there—broth and rice, portioned out like it was a favor. Now, alone, he rummaged through his cabinets. A half-empty bag of rice, some dried fish, a couple onions starting to soften. Enough for a simple meal, if he could manage the fire.
Lighting the small stove took longer than it should. His hands shook a bit, fingers fumbling with the matches. The flame caught, and he set a pot of water to boil. While it heated, he unwrapped the bandages to check the bruise. Purple and yellow spread across his skin, tender to the touch. He winced, pressing gently. The spar had gone wrong—a misstep, his opponent's kick landing harder than expected. No one's fault, really. Just bad luck.
The water bubbled, and he added rice, stirring it with a wooden spoon. The steam rose, warm against his face. He sat back, watching it cook. The room was quiet, save for the soft hiss of the stove. Outside, voices drifted in faintly—someone calling to a neighbor, a door slamming shut. Haruto's mind wandered, fragments of the day replaying. The medic's face, stern but not unkind, handing him the discharge papers. "Rest up, kid. No training for a week." He'd nodded, but the words sat heavy. A week without the academy drills meant falling behind, and he was already on reserve. No squad assignment yet, just waiting.
He ate slowly when the rice was done, mixing in bits of fish. It was bland, but it filled the hole. Chewing made his jaw ache faintly, a reminder of the fall. After, he washed the bowl in the sink, the water cold from the tap. Dusk settled in, the light fading through the window. He unrolled the futon, spreading it out on the tatami mat. The fabric was thin, worn from use, but it was his.
Lying down, he stared at the ceiling. Cracks spiderwebbed across the plaster, faint in the dimming light. His body settled, but sleep didn't come easy. The silence pressed in, unbroken except for his own breathing. Something felt off, like a itch he couldn't place. Memories flickered— not the accident, but older ones. A street that wasn't this village, lights brighter than lanterns, voices in a language that twisted strangely in his head. He frowned, pushing it away. Tiredness, probably. The injury messing with his mind.
He turned on his side, careful not to aggravate the ribs. The alley outside grew darker, shadows deepening. A cat yowled somewhere distant, then quiet again. Haruto closed his eyes, willing rest to come. But the unease lingered, a quiet weight in his chest.
The next morning came slow, gray light filtering through the thin curtains. Haruto woke stiff, his side protesting as he sat up. He rubbed his eyes, the room unchanged from the night before. Hunger returned, milder now, but persistent. He stood, folding the futon away, and boiled water for tea. The leaves were old, the brew weak, but it warmed his hands.
He dressed in simple clothes—a worn shirt and pants, nothing flashy. The genin vest hung on a hook by the door, untouched since graduation. Reserve status meant no missions, just occasional check-ins. He glanced at it, then away. No point dwelling.
Stepping out, the air was crisp, carrying the scent of baking bread from a nearby stall. His stomach tightened, but he ignored it, heading toward the market. The paths were familiar, winding between shops and homes. People nodded in passing, but no one stopped him. He bought a few apples with the coins from his pocket—small, bruised ones, cheaper that way. Biting into one, the juice was tart, cutting through the morning haze.
Back in the apartment, he sat at the table, peeling another apple with a small knife. The blade was dull, requiring careful pressure. His thoughts drifted again, unbidden. A flash: sitting in a room with walls of glass, screens glowing with moving images. He blinked, the image gone. What was that? Not a dream, but not real either. He set the knife down, staring at his hands. Callused from training, but young. Thirteen, maybe? The academy records said so, but sometimes it felt wrong, like he'd lived more days than that.
He shook his head, finishing the apple. Probably just the knock to his head during the spar. The medic had mentioned possible confusion. It would pass.
The day stretched on. He changed the bandages, applying salve from the hospital sack. The bruise looked no better, but no worse. He paced the room a few times, testing his movement. Slow steps, breathing even. Pain flared if he twisted wrong, so he didn't. Outside, the village hummed—shouts from a training ground nearby, the clang of metal on metal. He listened, leaning against the window frame. Kids his age, probably in squads now, practicing. He wasn't jealous, not exactly. Just aware of the gap.
Lunch was more rice, this time with an onion chopped in. He ate at the table, staring at the wall. The quiet settled again, heavier in daylight. No visitors, no notes under the door. Orphans like him didn't get much attention unless they caused trouble. He washed up, then lay back on the folded futon, arms behind his head.
Memories tugged again—fragments, disjointed. A bed softer than this, food that came in packages, strange vehicles rumbling past. He frowned, trying to grasp it. Why did it feel familiar? Like echoes from someone else's life. He sat up, rubbing his temples. Stop it. Focus on what's real. The apartment, the village, the ache in his side.
As evening approached, he ventured out again. The streets were livelier, lanterns flickering on as the sun dipped. He walked without aim, passing a ramen stand where steam rose invitingly. Coins low, he kept going. A group of shinobi crossed his path—older, vests marked with symbols. They didn't glance his way. He watched them go, a faint pull in his gut. Someday, maybe.
Back home, darkness had fallen. He lit a single candle, the flame dancing shadows on the walls. Supper was the last of the rations—dried meat, tough but sustaining. He chewed methodically, the silence absolute now. Night brought its own sounds: wind rustling leaves, distant footsteps. He blew out the candle early, settling into the futon.
Sleep evaded him longer this time. The unease grew, not panic, but a steady doubt. Those stray thoughts—were they from fever? Or something broken inside? He turned, staring into the dark. The room felt smaller, the world outside vast and indifferent. Tomorrow, he'd try light training, see what his body could handle. But for now, the quiet pressed on, unbroken.
Days blurred a bit after that. Haruto kept to routine: meals scraped together, bandages changed, short walks to stretch his legs. The bruise faded slowly, from angry purple to mottled green. He avoided the academy grounds, not ready for questions. Instead, he observed from afar—perched on a low wall one afternoon, watching drills. Kids threw kunai, the thunks rhythmic against wooden targets. He noted their forms, mentally correcting a sloppy grip here, a wide stance there. His own hands itched, but he stayed put.
At home, the memories persisted, subtle intrusions. While sweeping the floor, a sudden image: hands on a wheel, scenery blurring past. He paused, broom in hand. What wheel? No carts moved that fast. He resumed sweeping, harder than needed.
Hunger was a constant companion, managed but never gone. Market runs yielded basics—eggs one day, vegetables the next. He cooked simply, flames licking the pot. Eating alone, he sometimes heard echoes of laughter, not from outside, but inside his head. Crowded tables, unfamiliar faces. He pushed his bowl away, appetite waning.
Nights were the worst. Lying there, the ceiling cracks became maps to nowhere. Doubt crept in: Was this all there was? Reserve genin, scraping by. He rolled over, ignoring the twinge in his side. Sleep came eventually, fitful.
One evening, as rain pattered against the window, he sat cross-legged on the floor. Breathing exercises from the academy—slow inhales, holds, exhales. His body responded sluggishly, energy low. But it helped, grounding him. The rain softened to a drizzle, then stopped. Silence returned.
He stood, stretching carefully. The apartment felt lived-in now, dust cleared, items in place. But the unease didn't lift. It simmered, like a pot left on low heat. Those odd memories—glimpses of a life not his. He wondered, briefly, if he should tell someone. A medic, maybe. But what would he say? "I remember things that aren't real." They'd think him cracked.
Instead, he prepared for bed. The futon welcomed him, cool sheets against skin. He closed his eyes, listening to his heartbeat. Steady, if a little fast. Tomorrow, perhaps a visit to the assignment office. Check on squad status. Anything to move forward.
But as darkness enveloped him, a quiet tension lingered. The world outside his door felt heavier, full of unseen edges. He breathed deep, waiting for sleep to claim him.
The week dragged on. Haruto's side improved enough for basic chores—washing clothes in the communal basin downstairs, hanging them to dry. Water sloshed cold against his hands, soap bitter. Neighbors passed, offering curt nods. An old woman from next door asked about his injury once. "Training mishap," he said. She hummed, not pressing.
Food stretched thin. He rationed the rice, adding wild herbs gathered from the village edge. Bitter, but they filled out meals. Hunger sharpened his senses, made him notice details: the way light slanted through leaves, the scurry of insects on the path.
Memories intruded less often, but when they did, they stuck. Chopping vegetables, he recalled a kitchen with metal appliances, humming softly. He nicked his finger, blood welling up. Cursing under his breath, he bandaged it. Foolish distraction.
Evenings brought reflection. Sitting by the window, he watched the village wind down. Lights winked out one by one, shadows claiming the streets. Shinobi patrolled occasionally, silent figures on rooftops. He envied their ease, their place.
Sleep came easier now, body mending. But dreams fragmented—snatches of that other life, blurred and fading upon waking. He dismissed them as remnants of pain, nothing more.
One morning, clearer-headed, he donned the genin vest. It hung loose, but felt right. Time to check in. The walk to the office was longer, his pace steady. The building loomed, stone and wood, banners fluttering. Inside, the clerk glanced up. "Name?"
"Haruto."
Papers rustled. "Reserve. No changes. Come back next month."
He nodded, leaving without argument. Outside, the sun warmed his face. Disappointment sat light, expected.
Back home, he shed the vest. Lunch was sparse—boiled eggs, greens. He ate thoughtfully, mind on the future. Training soon, careful at first. Build back.
As afternoon waned, he practiced forms in the room's limited space. Slow movements, no strain. Sweat beaded, but pain stayed minimal. Good.
Dinner followed, simple stew. The pot simmered, aromas filling the air. He savored it, alone but content for the moment.
Night fell. Futon unrolled, candle snuffed. In the dark, thoughts circled. Those stray memories—less now, but persistent. A puzzle missing pieces. He let it go, breathing even.
The quiet tension remained, a subtle undercurrent. The world waited outside, unforgiving. But for now, rest.