My earliest memories in this new life are painted in shades of purple and gray—Mother's hair catching the dim light that filtered through our rain-streaked windows, Father's weathered Amegakure headband hanging by the door. Our home wasn't large, but it was warm despite the perpetual chill outside.
"Look, Yuu!" Mother—Maria—would exclaim, clapping as I achieved another milestone far too early. "She's already trying to grab the paper crane!"
Father would smile, but I caught the worry in his eyes. "Perhaps we should put them higher, Maria. We don't want anyone noticing how... special she is."
They were right to be cautious. Even at three months old, I was already too aware, too focused. While other infants were learning to track moving objects, I was secretly practicing blood manipulation, strengthening my tiny muscles, and preparing this new body for what I knew would come.
Mother had a ritual every morning. She'd wrap me in a soft purple blanket—her favorite color, now mine—and carry me to the kitchen window. "See the rain, little one? In Amegakure, the rain tells stories. When it's gentle like this, it means peace. When it storms..." She would hold me closer. "Well, let's hope you don't hear those stories for a long time."
Father was a god, but not the kind they write about in legends. He worked hard, took whatever missions he could find, and came home every night no matter how exhausted he was. I remember the way he'd check all our windows and doors before bed, placing small paper seals—nothing fancy, just basic protection jutsu.
"My little origami," he'd say, using his special nickname for me as he tucked me in. "One day, I'll teach you proper seals. But for now, sleep. The rain will watch over you."
Our days fell into comfortable patterns. Mother would fold origami with me, teaching my small fingers the basic folds that would one day become my signature jutsu. She didn't know I was already practicing more complex techniques when alone, combining them with blood manipulation to create something entirely new.
"Mama!" I called out one morning, earlier than most children would speak. "Paper butterfly!"
The look of shock and joy on her face was worth breaking my cover of normalcy, just a little. She scooped me up, spinning me around our small living room. "Yuu! Yuu! Come quickly! She's speaking!"
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Father rushed in from his morning exercises, Kunai still in hand. When he realized what was happening, his worried frown melted into a proud smile. "That's my clever girl."
As I grew, our small house became a universe of discovery. The low table where we ate our meals became my first training ground—I would secretly practice manipulating the blood in our rice to make it more nutritious. The narrow hallway where Father hung his spare weapons became my obstacle course, teaching me balance and agility.
Mother was particularly proud of our tiny garden. Despite the constant rain—or perhaps because of it—she managed to grow herbs and vegetables in boxes under our window's overhang. "Nature finds a way," she'd say, showing me how to test if the soil was too wet. "Just like people in Amegakure. We adapt."
When I was four, Father started teaching me basic chakra control exercises, though I pretended to be worse at them than I was. Those evening sessions, with Mother watching and offering encouragement, were precious. They didn't know I was already far beyond such basics, but those moments weren't really about training—they were about family.
"Keep your focus, little origami," Father would say, watching me try to stick a leaf to my forehead. "Control is more important than power."
Mother would add, "And remember to breathe. A shinobi's greatest strength is staying calm."
They were teaching me more than jutsu—they were teaching me how to be human in a world that often forgot its humanity. Every meal shared, every bedtime story, and every morning greeting became more precious as I grew older, knowing what fate typically held for parents in this world.
The last normal day we had, Mother made my favorite dinner—tempura with sweet potato. Father came home early, and we sat around our small table, the rain providing a gentle backdrop to our conversation. Mother talked about the rising prices in the market, and Father about potentially taking on more dangerous missions to earn extra money.
I remember every detail: the way Mother's hands shook slightly as she poured the tea, the fresh cut on Father's cheek from training, the smell of the tempura oil mixed with the damp air from outside. If I'd known it was our last peaceful meal together, I would have memorized even more.
That night, before everything changed, Father broke his usual routine. Instead of just checking the seals, he sat on my bed longer than usual.
"My little origami," he said softly, "promise me something. Whatever happens, remember that strength isn't just about jutsu and chakra. It's about keeping your heart whole even when the rain turns to storms."
I wonder sometimes if he knew what was coming. If those extra moments were his way of preparing me for the darkness that would soon descend on our small, warm world.
The next day, the explosions began.