The grey stone markers marched across the cemetery slope in disciplined rows toward the treeline.
The air carried the scent of pungent cedar and the lingering ghost of incense.
Tsubaki walked the narrow path, the red fabric of her dress whispering against her calves.
The weight of her long black braid pulled at her scalp, swaying against the small of her back as she navigated the cemetary.
A bunch of winter-blooming camellias pressed against her chest; the waxy leaves felt cool through the thin material of her blouse.
Near the entrance, the shish-shish of bamboo brooms rhythmically cleared the walkway.
Iwana Akame adjusted his bandanna—eye-patch remained steady as he adjusted the forehead protector tied like a bandanna around his forehead—he was tracking rogue leaves, flitting around the grave markers.
Bekkō meanwhile—scrubbed a patch of lichen on a plinth—his broad, flat nose wrinkled at the scent of damp moss while he tightened the bandages at his wrists.
Yajirobee stood further off, his oversized glasses caught a glint of light beneath his helmet, the tantō on his back shifting with a metallic clink as he oversaw the work.
They moved with a steady cadence of broom strokes and light steps.
Tsubaki passed the grave of Rin Nohara.
The stone appeared small, weathered by a decade of rain.
Further up, the marker for Dan Katō sat in a patch of tended moss.
She paused near the carving for Hayate Gekkō—a brief hesitation—thinking of the violet-haired woman she had seen at the Yamanaka's flower shop.
Next was the monument for Sakumo Hatake.
It stood apart, a heavy weight in the air that seemed to push the other stones away.
Tsubaki didn't look at it long.
Finally, she arrived at the Third Hokage's resting place.
The sculpture representing the Will of Fire loomed above the base, the kanji for Hokage carved into the granite.
Tsubaki knelt, the gravel grinding under her weight, and began to arrange the camellias.
The heavy blossoms pulled at the stems, waxy and cold.
A sticky residue of sap clung to her fingers like drying glue, and the air began to stiffen her joints.
Crunch-clack.
The sound of boots signaled a presence.
Tsubaki's pulse jumped, sending a flush of heat to her face.
She turned to see Ibiki Morino and Iruka Umino approaching.
Ibiki's trench coat cast a massive shadow that swallowed her.
The darkness triggered a brief, involuntary memory of a dark interrogation room, making her stomach coil.
"I... I apologize," Tsubaki whispered, her voice cracking. She looked at the flowers. "I shouldn't be taking up your time. I know I don't have the standing to be here."
Ibiki stopped two paces away, his scarred face unreadable—arms folded behind his back—carrying the scent of tobacco and iron. "Grief doesn't require a permit, Tsubaki," he rumbled, the sound a low grind. "You are allowed to mourn."
Tsubaki stood, wiping a smudge of dirt from her white blouse.
The guilt sat in her throat like a stone until she swallowed hard.
"I look at this stone and I see Mizuki," she admitted, her gaze fixed on the monument. She remembered the woods at dusk. The way Mizuki had avoided her eye, his voice dropping to a whisper when he mentioned the Scroll of Seals—the smell of fresh ink on his fingers and the metallic scent of the secret he was keeping.
"I knew, Ibiki. I knew he was meeting someone. And I stayed quiet. I played the part of the wife because I thought if I acted soft, he would stay."
A bridge formed in her mind: Mizuki's whispers leading to the sudden, midnight screams of the invasion. "If I had challenged him—if I had been a kunoichi instead of a shadow—maybe he would still be here. Maybe the Lord Hokage wouldn't have died."
The world tilted. Tsubaki's vision narrowed to the grey grain of the stone.
A ringing filled her ears, drowning out the wind, and a wave of nausea forced her to brace her hand against the frost-tinged granite.
Ibiki's silence seemed to stretch—his shoulders rolled and Tsubaki winced reflexively.
Iruka stepped forward.
His standard flak jacket looked lived-in, with sleeves rolled up exactly a quarter-way above his wrists as he gestured.
He pressed a thumb hard against the scar on the bridge of his nose. "Mizuki was my friend, Tsubaki. For years. I missed the rot too."
Tsubaki didn't look up immediately.
The ringing in her ears persisted, making Iruka's voice sound like it was coming from the bottom of a well.
Her fingers gripped the granite until her knuckles ached.
"I tried to keep them together," Iruka continued, his breath clouding in the cold air. "Naruto and Sasuke. I saw them drifting toward the same isolation Mizuki lived in. I wanted to build a bridge. But sometimes I wonder if I just made the snap worse. If I gave them a hope they couldn't achieve, what kind of sensei would I be?"
Tsubaki's breathing finally deepened.
The nausea receded, leaving her shaky but grounded.
She looked at Iruka, her brown eyes flashing with a sudden fire. "You were a good teacher, Iruka-san. The children choose their own paths. Mizuki... he burned his own map."
Iruka let out a breath like a weary laugh. "Ibiki and Asuma said something similar. It seems I'm the only one still arguing with how it turned out."
Ibiki looked at the red camellias.
"Camellias are strange," Ibiki said. "They don't shed petals. They fall whole. The entire head drops at once, while it's still in bloom."
Tsubaki stared at the red blossoms.
She thought of a sword stroke.
She thought of Mizuki's sudden end, his life dropping away all at once.
"They don't wait for spring to prove they can survive the cold," Ibiki continued, taking a step closer, his figure blocking the biting breeze.
Tsubaki glanced away.
"Stay firm, Tsubaki. The winter hasn't reached its peak, but you will bloom in it. You always have."
Her jaw unclenched, and a warmth returned to her fingers despite the chill.
She looked at the two men—one scarred by malice, the other by kindness—and felt a shiver in her marrow.
"Thank you," she said.
She reached down and straightened one last stem, the cold petals bruising slightly under her grip.
She didn't feel healed, but she felt anchored.
As she walked away toward the gates, she heard the clink of Iruka's roster and the rumble of Ibiki's voice as they began their own vigil.
Behind her, the maintenance ninjas continued, the shish-shish of the brooms scraping against the gravel.