212

One Week Later…

The sun hung low in the Hidden Sand Village, casting long shadows over the arid landscape. The wind blew gently through the desert, carrying fine grains of sand across the cemetery where two fresh graves stood, side by side. Simple markers, carved from stone, rested at the head of each mound, the names still crisp and new:

Aiko Akasuna

Kento Akasuna

Before the graves stood a young boy, no older than ten, with red hair that caught the fading sunlight. His small, wiry frame seemed almost swallowed by the vastness of the desert around him. Sasori Akasuna's dark eyes, usually so lively with curiosity, were now dull, locked on the graves in front of him.

He had stood there for hours, unmoving. His clothes, simple and loose, swayed slightly in the desert breeze, but Sasori himself did not move. His face, youthful but marked with a quiet intensity, was void of expression. There were no tears, no sobs. Only silence. A silence that felt far too heavy for someone his age.

Behind him, Chiyo, his grandmother, watched from a distance. Her heart ached, not just from the loss of her son and daughter-in-law, but for Sasori—the boy who now stood alone in front of their graves. Chiyo had known war, had known loss, but this… this was something different. This was family. And watching Sasori, so still, so silent, she couldn't help but fear for what came next.

She took a few steps forward, her presence quiet but felt. Sasori didn't turn to look at her. His eyes remained fixed on the two graves, as if searching for something he could not find. Answers, perhaps. Or maybe just understanding.

Chiyo finally broke the silence. "They died honorably," she said softly, her voice carrying gently on the wind. "For the village. For you."

For a long moment, Sasori said nothing. His small hands, hanging loosely at his sides, clenched slightly. His chest felt tight, but not with sadness—at least, not the kind he had expected. It wasn't grief that filled him, but something quieter, something far more complex. Confusion, perhaps. Or maybe it was something more like emptiness.

"They're not coming back," he whispered, more to himself than to Chiyo. His voice trembled, not from sorrow, but from the weight of trying to understand what that meant. He was ten, and his parents—his entire world—were gone. Just like that.

Chiyo stepped closer, her old hands gentle as she rested one on Sasori's shoulder. He didn't move, but the contact didn't bring him comfort. If anything, it only made the reality of his isolation feel sharper.

"They died protecting you," she said softly. "They loved you, Sasori."

Sasori's eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze still fixed on the graves. "They loved me?" he asked, his voice quiet but filled with a question he couldn't fully articulate. "Then why did they leave me?"

Chiyo's heart clenched at his words. She had known this moment would come—the moment when Sasori would begin to question what it meant to be a shinobi, what it meant to lose people, to sacrifice for the village. But hearing it now, in his small, quiet voice, made it all the more painful.

"They didn't want to leave you," she said gently, kneeling beside him now. "They had a duty, Sasori. To the village, to you. They were shinobi. They fought for something greater than themselves."

Sasori frowned, his young face twisting slightly as he tried to grasp the meaning of her words. Duty. Sacrifice. It all sounded so noble, but standing here, in front of these graves, those words felt hollow. What did it mean to fight for something "greater" if it only took everything from you in the end?

"I don't understand," Sasori murmured, his voice almost a whisper. His fists tightened at his sides, but not in anger. "If they loved me, why did they choose to die? Why didn't they stay? Why didn't they come home?"

Chiyo closed her eyes for a moment, her breath catching in her throat. What could she say? What answer could she give to a child who had just lost his parents? She had lived long enough to know that words of comfort often failed in moments like these. What Sasori needed wasn't explanation—he needed something more.

"They didn't choose to die, Sasori," she said quietly, her voice trembling. "Sometimes, as shinobi, we don't get to choose. The battlefield doesn't allow for choices like that."

Sasori's brow furrowed as he thought about her words. But even as he tried to understand, something inside him resisted. His parents were gone, and no explanation about duty or sacrifice could fill the emptiness that had opened up inside him. He had waited for them for so long. He had believed they would come home. And now… they never would.

"They didn't come back," he whispered again, his voice barely audible. "They left me alone."

Chiyo's heart ached as she watched him, saw the small tremble in his shoulders, the way his fists remained clenched as if holding on to something that was slipping away. She wanted to reach out, to pull him into her arms and tell him that everything would be okay. But she knew that wasn't the truth. Not here. Not now.

"They didn't want to leave you, Sasori," Chiyo said softly. "But sometimes, that's what it means to be a shinobi. We fight for those we love, but sometimes… we don't get to come home."

Sasori's eyes, still fixed on the graves, seemed to darken slightly. The confusion that had filled him earlier began to shift, replaced by something colder, something harder. He didn't understand why this had happened. Why his parents had to die. Why they had to leave him.

But more than anything, he didn't understand why the world seemed to expect him to accept it.

"Why is that okay?" Sasori asked suddenly, his voice sharp and pained. He turned to look at Chiyo, his dark eyes filled with something she hadn't seen in him before. Not anger. Not sadness. But a kind of deep, quiet disillusionment. "Why is it okay for them to leave? For them to never come back?"

Chiyo swallowed hard, her throat tight with emotion. "It's not okay, Sasori," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "But it's the life we live."

Sasori looked away, his eyes once again locked on the graves. He could feel something shifting inside him. The world didn't make sense. The things he had been taught about loyalty, duty, and sacrifice—they all felt hollow now, stripped of meaning. What good were those words if they only took the people he loved away from him?

"They're just… gone," he whispered, more to himself than to Chiyo. His hands unclenched, falling to his sides as the weight of his parents' absence settled deep inside him. "And nothing I do will bring them back."

Chiyo felt tears sting the corners of her eyes as she watched her grandson, this brilliant, quiet boy who had always been so full of curiosity, now standing in front of her with a look that was far too old for his age. He wasn't just grieving. He was changing. She could see it, feel it. The loss of his parents had broken something inside him, something vital.

But Sasori wasn't breaking in the way children often did—he wasn't weeping, or lashing out. No, Sasori's heart was hardening, closing off to the world around him. The very things that should have given him comfort—love, connection—were now the things he was starting to reject.

Sasori took a deep breath, his mind racing with thoughts that felt too big for him to fully grasp. He had always been drawn to puppets, to the way they moved, the way they could be controlled. They never left. They never disobeyed. And now, more than ever, that idea felt… right.

Puppets didn't abandon you. They didn't die. They stayed, no matter what.

Sasori's eyes narrowed slightly as the thought began to solidify in his mind. The idea of creating something, something permanent, something that wouldn't leave him like his parents had—it comforted him in a way that nothing else could.

"I'll make something that lasts," Sasori whispered, his voice so quiet that Chiyo almost didn't hear him.

Chiyo's breath caught in her throat, her chest tightening as she realized what he meant. She had seen how fascinated he was with puppetry, how skilled he had become even at such a young age. But this… this was different. This wasn't about skill or fascination. This was about control. About a child trying to make sense of a world that had just taken everything from him.

Sasori turned to look at her, his face calm, but his eyes far too cold for someone his age. "I'll make sure nothing leaves me again."

Chiyo's heart broke as she realized what this moment truly meant. The boy she had known, the boy who had smiled and laughed and looked at the world with wonder—he was gone.