Naruto : The Ghost Bone

It was long past bedtime, yet Ken found himself lying awake in the dark, eyes open, thoughts swirling. The stuffy room, the low murmur of children breathing in sleep, the stillness—it all felt heavy. After what had happened that morning, sleep didn't come easy.

Eventually, without disturbing anyone, he slipped out of the room, padded down the narrow hallway, and climbed the creaking stairs to the rooftop. The orphanage wasn't a tall building, just two stories, but up here it felt like a separate world. The air was clearer, the mist thinner this far from central Kirigakure. The sky stretched overhead—gray-blue with a faint scatter of stars, muted but visible. The chill nipped at his skin, and he breathed in slowly, letting the air settle something restless inside him.

He stood there in silence, leaning slightly on the railing, thoughts wandering. Then he heard soft footsteps behind him.

"Couldn't sleep either?" came Miss Suiren's voice, calm and tired.

Ken glanced back and gave a small nod. "Yeah."

She stepped up beside him, her shawl pulled tight around her shoulders. They both looked up at the sky for a while without speaking. Then, without prompt, she spoke again—her voice quieter this time.

"It wasn't always like this. The village... I mean."

Ken looked at her from the side, listening without interrupting.

"Before the Second Shinobi War, things were harsh, but there was still a kind of order. After the war ended, everything changed. The higher-ups hardened. They started talking more about survival and less about people. Orphans became resources. Tools for the future. Most people don't even bat an eye when a kid vanishes now... they just assume it was for training, conscription, or something worse."

She paused, her hands folded in front of her, fingers pressing together.

"I've seen a lot of things, but I think this is worse than the war itself."

Ken absorbed her words silently. He had already suspected the world around him was harsher than he remembered from the manga, but hearing it from her—someone living in it—made the weight feel more real. More permanent.

After a moment, he asked quietly, "What happened this morning… with the girl?"

Miss Suiren didn't answer immediately. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and when she did speak, it was with careful words.

"I used to be a shinobi. During a mission near the end of the war, my chakra pathways were damaged—badly. It took everything I had to get treated. All my savings, every favor I could call in. I recovered... partially. I can walk, work, live. But I can't fight. Not really. My chakra flow's weak now. Almost civilian level."

She let out a breath, slow and quiet.

"After the war ended, I saw what happened to kids left behind. Starving, alone, scavenging the battlefield for food or crying beside the bodies of their parents. I started picking them up, bringing them here. One at a time at first. Then more. I couldn't stop. But I never got official approval. The village wouldn't support me—said there were no funds, no programs for it. So I built this place from scraps. On paper, we don't exist."

Ken looked at her properly now, taking in the fatigue in her eyes, the lines on her face that spoke more of emotional wear than age.

"That shinobi who came today," she continued, "wasn't from the village. He's a hired guard for one of the merchants I have to deal with sometimes. I can't stop them from taking what they want. I can't even report it. If I bring attention to the orphanage, they'll shut us down."

There was a long silence after that. Ken looked out at the dark skyline, absorbing every piece of her confession. No chakra. No money. No support. Just one woman, carrying the weight of a crumbling sanctuary.

He turned, stood straight, and bowed his head low.

"Thank you, Miss Suiren," he said softly. "For not giving up on us."

Miss Suiren let out a small laugh, caught somewhere between surprise and emotion. "You're too serious for your age, Ken."

"I don't feel that young," he replied under his breath.

She didn't press.

But then her voice changed—more fragile. "The girl... the one they took... she was just like all the others to me. Like my daughter. They all are. Every single one of you."

Her voice cracked slightly, and for the first time, she looked away, brushing a sleeve across her cheek. "And I just stood there and watched. I didn't even fight. Because I knew I couldn't do anything. I've never felt more useless in my life."

Ken didn't think. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her gently. It was an awkward, quiet hug—but it didn't need words. She didn't speak either. Just let herself feel it, even for a moment.

After they separated, Ken looked at her, something solid and settled in his eyes.

"I need to get stronger," he said. "I need to learn how to use chakra. I need to stop just... watching."

Miss Suiren's expression turned sharply serious. "Don't walk that path lightly, Ken. Being a shinobi—it's not just strength. It's sacrifice. Pain. You might become someone you don't like."

"I understand," he said. "But I can't be powerless either."

She studied his face for a long while before nodding slightly. "Alright. I'll show you a basic chakra meditation. It's not much, but it's a place to start. And you'll take it slow. No overexerting. Promise me that."

"I promise."

They stayed there a little longer, just watching the stars faintly shimmer through the gray mist.

Eventually, they both made their way back downstairs.

Ken lay in bed again, but this time his mind wasn't racing in fear. It was quiet. Still serious, but with direction.

He thought about everything Miss Suiren had told him. About the sacrifices she'd made. The burden she carried alone. He had always known the world was different from his old one, but tonight, it struck him how people like her—without power, fame, or help—were still fighting to protect others. Still holding onto something.

And that, in his eyes, made her stronger than most shinobi.

He looked over at the few small kids curled up near his bed. The same ones who had held his hand earlier, scared and confused by the morning's events. He reached out, placed a hand gently on the youngest boy's back. The child stirred but didn't wake.

Someday, Ken thought, I'll take that burden from her. I'll become strong enough to protect this place. I'll find that girl and bring her back too.

With that quiet vow, he finally closed his eyes, and for the first time in days, sleep came easy.