Chapter Text
The world snapped back into place with a hard jolt—paper screens, the sharp scent of antiseptic, the steady hum of chakra monitors.
Miyuki flinched as if the return to her own body physically hurt.
Kakashi’s hand was still on her shoulder, steady and grounding. He didn’t withdraw.
Inoichi released a slow breath—the measured exhale of a man accustomed to navigating other people’s nightmares, and still visibly shaken. His eyes were sharp, but not steady.
“Tsunade-sama,” he said, voice low, “what we witnessed was not a standard memory stream.”
Tsunade stepped in immediately. “Define ‘not standard.’”
Inoichi massaged the bridge of his nose. “Initially, I suspected a subconscious projection—possibly a trauma-born construct. But the structure…”
His gaze flicked to Miyuki.
“…the structure behaved like a foreign mind.”
“Foreign how?” Tsunade pressed.
“A mind shaped outside any shinobi system. Outside chakra entirely.”
Silence crashed over the room.
He continued slowly, choosing each word with surgical precision:
“Miyuki is not inventing metaphors, nor recalling delusions. She is accessing lived experiences that belonged to someone who existed in a world without chakra—yet with social systems and technologies unfamiliar to any known nation.”
Tsunade frowned. “Reincarnation?”
“Possible,” Inoichi admitted. “But reincarnation leaves residual chakra patterns. Predictable ones.”
Another breath.
“This did not.”
He crouched before Miyuki—careful, noninvasive, studying her like a puzzle he respected and feared.
“Her mind didn’t simply show us memories. It selected them.”
A beat.
“As if something inside her understood what we needed to see.”
Kakashi’s jaw tensed. “The girl spoke to us.”
“Yes,” Inoichi said quietly. “And that is what concerns me most.”
Tsunade’s tone sharpened. “Explain.”
Inoichi clasped his hands behind his back. The posture was composed, but the faint tremor in his fingers betrayed him.
“That figure—the girl—was not a fractured personality. She demonstrated awareness, independent intent, and the ability to perceive Miyuki’s current emotional state.”
His eyes flicked to Kakashi.
“And she addressed both of you directly.”
Tsunade’s expression soured. “So we’re dealing with a split psyche?”
“No,” Inoichi said instantly—too fast.
He steadied himself, then repeated more calmly:
“No. Her chakra flow does not resemble any form of dissociation.”
He straightened slightly.
“Instead… it behaved like an imprint. A consciousness that once lived, but no longer does—yet remains attached to Miyuki’s essence, as if preserved by lingering emotional resonance.”
Kakashi’s voice was rough. “A ghost?”
Inoichi hesitated. “…A shadow would be closer.”
Miyuki swallowed, throat tight. “She’s… a past version of me.”
“No.”
Inoichi’s eyes sharpened with a rare intensity.
“She is a complete self who lived an entire life elsewhere. And she spoke with knowledge she should not possess—knowledge about shinobi history that cannot be guessed.”
Tsunade’s voice dropped. “Such as?”
Inoichi’s gaze flickered toward Kakashi.
“Kakashi’s past.”
Kakashi went still.
“She referenced events surrounding Minato-sama,” Inoichi continued. “She spoke of Obito… of the White Fang… in a manner only someone with outside knowledge could.”
Tsunade crossed her arms. “So you’re saying Miyuki contains a foreign intelligence?”
“No,” he said firmly.
Then added, softer:
“Yes.”
A beat of tortured honesty.
“I don’t know.”
He faced the Hokage directly.
“But I do know what she feels.”
His tone gentled—still clinical, but edged with something human.
“She carries the emotional weight of someone who watched destinies unfold painfully. Someone who knew outcomes she could not change.”
He turned to Kakashi.
“She fears your future,” he said quietly. “Because she fears she has already seen it.”
A flicker crossed Kakashi’s expression—quick, sharp, wounded.
And Miyuki—trembling—whispered:
“I’m sorry.”
Inoichi rose.
“For now, I recommend no further mind dives. Not without grounding seals, preparation, and the presence of someone she trusts.”
A pointed look toward Kakashi.
“Preferably him.”
Kakashi’s heartbeat hitched—but he said nothing.
Tsunade exhaled sharply. “This just became complicated.”
Inoichi nodded. “More than we anticipated.”
Then, in a voice rarely heard from him—something reverent, uneasy:
“And Hokage-sama… I have walked through the minds of countless shinobi. Tortured veterans, unstable ANBU, prodigies under pressure.”
A beat.
“But I have never—ever—encountered anything like that girl.”
Silence swallowed the room.
───
Miyuki trembled where she sat, hands digging into her knees as if to make herself smaller.
Tsunade moved first.
“Miyuki,” she said, blunt but not unkind, “you’re done for today.”
Miyuki flinched. “I—I can keep going—”
“No.” Tsunade’s tone softened by a sliver. “Your chakra is unstable, your pulse is spiking, and you’re coughing blood. You need rest.”
“But—”
“That’s an order.”
The words hit like a blow. Miyuki folded in on herself.
Tsunade turned to Kakashi, gaze sharp. “Hatake. Get her home. Stay with her until she’s stable.”
Something flickered in Kakashi’s eye—gone too quickly to read.
“And Kakashi,” Tsunade added, voice dropping, “report back afterward. We’re not finished.”
“Understood.”
Miyuki rose unsteadily. Kakashi shifted to support her, but she hesitated—a microsecond’s pause. Enough for Tsunade to notice. Enough for Inoichi to store away silently.
“Miyuki,” Tsunade said, gentler this time, “you’re not in trouble. We’ll proceed carefully. For your safety.”
Miyuki nodded weakly.
Kakashi guided her to the door, his hand hovering near her back—waiting for permission she didn’t know how to give.
The door clicked shut behind them.
───
They walked in silence.
Not awkward—weighted.
Konoha’s evening air was cool, lanterns casting warm gold across the street. Shadows stretched long behind them.
Kakashi stayed half a step back at first.
When her knees buckled, he moved without hesitation, hand steadying her. “Slow down.”
She didn’t pretend she was fine.
Her mind felt bruised, too full of memories that weren’t hers.
Her home appeared sooner than she expected.
Her fingers fumbled with the lock. Kakashi took the key gently.
“Here.”
The door opened. Miyuki stepped inside. Kakashi didn’t follow until she whispered:
“…You can come in.”
He did—quiet, almost cautious.
The small apartment smelled like tea and clean linen. Safe.
Miyuki stood in the center of the room, as if unsure what to do with her own body.
Kakashi studied her—really studied her—taking in the tremor in her breath, the tension twisting her shoulders, the haunted sheen in her eyes.
“Miyuki,” he said softly. “Sit before you fall.”
She tried to laugh. It cracked. He guided her to the couch, hand light at her elbow.
She folded forward, hands between her knees.
He crouched in front of her.
“You’re safe.”
She blinked, voice thin. “I don’t feel safe inside my own head.”
Kakashi didn’t lie. He never did.
“You’re overwhelmed,” he said simply. “That’s normal.”
Her throat tightened.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“For what?”
“For… all of it. For putting you through that. For what she said. About your team.”
A subtle shift—barely visible, but she saw it.
“That wasn’t your fault,” Kakashi said. “None of it.”
“She said I hurt her feelings,” Miyuki murmured bitterly.
“She wasn’t angry,” Kakashi replied. “She was lonely.”
Miyuki’s breath caught. “You think so?”
Kakashi nodded. “Lonely people say strange things to feel seen.”
Her eyes stung.
“And she spoke like someone who cares about you,” he added softly.
Her chest twisted.
“I didn’t want you to see the rest of it,” she whispered. “Her dying. The pain. The drugs. All of it. I didn’t want you to see… what I used to be.”
Kakashi’s voice was low. Gentle. Steady.
“I know who you are.”
She looked up, raw.
“You’re someone who tries to protect everyone,” he said. “Even when it breaks you.”
A fragile sound escaped her.
“And you’re someone who trusts me enough to let me see the pieces that hurt.”
Her eyes brimmed.
“Kakashi…”
He waited—didn’t touch her until she reached out first. Her fingers brushed his sleeve.
Kakashi moved instantly, sitting beside her so their shoulders touched.
She leaned into him—instinctive, aching—and he wrapped an arm around her.
Careful, gentle, sure.
“I hate this,” she whispered. “Feeling helpless.”
“You’re not helpless,” he murmured. “You’re human.”
“Am I?” Her voice cracked. “Some days I feel like I don’t belong here.”
He rested his cheek lightly against her hair.
“You exist,” Kakashi said. “And I’m glad you do.”
She froze.
The words broke something in her.
A tear slid down her cheek onto his vest.
He held her until the shaking eased.
When she finally leaned back, wiping her face, he didn’t pretend not to notice.
He simply asked:
“Do you want me to stay?”
Her breath hitched.
“…Yes.”
He tucked a loose strand behind her ear.
“I’ll stay.”
───
She didn’t know when she fell asleep.
Suddenly she was on a rooftop terrace—warm gold lights, lanterns swaying, distant city hum.
The girl in white sat nearby, knees drawn up, staring at the bright sprawl below.
Miyuki approached slowly and sat beside her.
“…Why did you say those things to Kakashi?” Miyuki asked. “And to Inoichi?”
The girl shrugged. “It got boring. Watching the everyday life of Miyuki Haruno. Predictable. Safe. Not much fun.”
Miyuki frowned. “You were just bored?”
“Is that surprising?” the girl said, a wry smile tugging at her mouth—part amusement, part shield.
They looked out at the city lights.
“Is it lonely here?” Miyuki asked.
The girl’s expression flickered—annoyance, curiosity, something softer—before settling on a crooked half-smile. “Lonely? Depends who’s around.”
She offered a glass of something pale. “Want one?”
Miyuki shook her head.
The girl stood, smoothing her white dress. “I’m going to join the crowd. People like me don’t follow rules. Someone had to be the bad guy tonight, and…”
She grinned. “I like the antiheroes. Itachi was always my favorite.”
Before Miyuki could answer, the girl disappeared into the shimmering lights.
And then—
The terrace vanished.
Warm blankets. A quiet room. Her hair spread across a pillow.
Kakashi was gone.
Her hand brushed the blanket, searching for him. Not finding him.
And somewhere deep in her chest, a soft ache lingered.
Along with one impossible question:
Was the girl in white part of her mind…
or was she her echo?
——-
It had only been one night since Miyuki’s strange rooftop vision.
Sakura never came home from her hospital shift.
By morning, Kakashi was already at the door.
“Tsunade-sama requests you,” he said. His voice was even, unhurried—
but the quiet under it told her who she would truly be seeing.
Inoichi.
And that Kakashi had been instructed to bring her personally.
He walked beside her all the way there: silent, aware of every detail around them, his presence steady—almost reassuring in how unobtrusive it was.
⸻
The room Inoichi chose wasn’t an interrogation room. It wasn’t even the formal Yamanaka office.
It was soft. Uncrowded. Warm lamplight. Muted colors. A low table with three cups of tea already waiting.
A place chosen to ease the nerves of a mind under strain.
Miyuki paused in the doorway.
Kakashi stood just behind her shoulder, relaxed posture, one hand in his pocket—close enough to anchor, far enough not to nudge.
“You answer what you choose to,” he said quietly.
A small pause.
“Ready?”
She nodded.
Kakashi gave a faint sound of acknowledgment—barely a hum—and stepped with her inside.
Inoichi didn’t stand. Didn’t posture.
He simply inclined his head with the kind of respect reserved for the wounded.
“Thank you for coming, Miyuki.”
His voice was controlled, calm, and warmer than she expected.
“This isn’t a formal assessment. My only aim is to understand your state of mind—and to ensure you feel safe speaking.”
Miyuki sat stiffly, hands clasped.
Kakashi took the seat beside her, angled just enough that she felt supported rather than surrounded.
Inoichi folded his hands.
“We’ll start simple,” he said. “Earlier… you recalled experiences from before this life.”
A beat.
“What exactly do you remember?”
Kakashi didn’t prompt her. Didn’t push.
He waited, still and patient—like someone accustomed to letting silence speak before he did.
So she tried.
“I… always had a sense of it,” she whispered. “Since I was born.”
Inoichi nodded, encouraging without interrupting.
“In that other life… my parents and I weren’t close.”
Her voice wavered.
“That’s why this life felt different. My father bringing home flowers… my mother sitting up with me when I was sick… their love—”
She swallowed hard.
“It felt rare. Something I wasn’t supposed to have.”
Kakashi’s eye softened—not pity, but recognition of pain he understood too well.
Inoichi’s voice lowered.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
She flinched.
Grief still pressed against her ribs like a hidden blade.
Silence settled between them—quiet, but weighted.
Then Inoichi leaned forward slightly.
“This girl you saw,” he said carefully. “She claimed your parents weren’t meant to die. What did she mean?”
Miyuki opened her mouth—
—and agony ripped through her lungs.
A violent cough tore free, wet and metallic. Blood splattered across her palm.
Kakashi reacted instantly—one hand bracing her back, the other steadying her wrist so she didn’t fold in on herself.
“Easy,” he murmured, voice low. “Breathe. Don’t force it.”
Inoichi’s eyes narrowed—not in suspicion, but in sharp concern.
Kakashi spoke when she couldn’t.
“Her body rejects certain answers.”
His tone remained controlled, but there was strain in the edges.
“When she tries to push through it, this happens.”
Inoichi exhaled slowly, gaze steady.
“That must be… isolating,” he said softly. “To carry something you physically cannot share.”
Miyuki wiped her mouth, shame burning her cheeks.
“I’m sorry…”
Kakashi gave a small shake of his head.
“You’ve done nothing wrong.”
Understated. Firm. A shinobi’s reassurance.
Inoichi watched them for a moment—cataloguing trust, dynamic, emotional stressors.
Then he spoke carefully:
“You’re able to speak about certain memories freely, but others trigger a block. That level of specificity is… uncommon.”
His gaze flicked to Kakashi.
“And I suspect there are questions Kakashi has chosen not to ask as well. For his own reasons.”
Miyuki looked at Kakashi sharply.
He didn’t react.
Didn’t deflect.
His silence was confirmation.
Her guilt twisted.
“I didn’t want to make things harder for you,” she whispered.
Kakashi released a slow breath.
“You haven’t,” he said quietly. “Don’t take on burdens that aren’t yours.”
It steadied her—unexpectedly, completely.
Inoichi shifted.
“This girl,” he continued. “I have working theories.”
Miyuki tensed.
“Have you interacted with her outside the mind walk?”
She nodded.
“It began after Iruka-san helped me with chakra exercises.”
Inoichi blinked.
“Only then?”
Another nod.
His demeanor sharpened—professional, cautious.
“Then possibilities include:”
He spoke like someone listing dangerous seals.
“—a residual consciousness carried across incarnations,
—an internal partition of the psyche manifesting as a separate persona,
—or a rare neurological mutation affecting memory and chakra flow.”
Miyuki stared at him.
“…What does that mean?”
Inoichi’s expression softened.
“It means we proceed carefully. At your pace.”
His eyes flicked to Kakashi.
“With adequate emotional grounding.”
He sat back.
“I’d like to meet with you again. No pressure. No forcing. Just… clarity, and stability. This phenomenon is extraordinary—but it leaves you vulnerable. And if you’re to remain whole, you’ll eventually need to face that girl. The part of you that remembers.”
Miyuki swallowed.
Kakashi brushed her arm—barely there, barely seen, but grounding.
Inoichi waited.
“…Okay,” she whispered.
Fragile, but real.
⸻
Dusk had settled over the village when they left the Yamanaka compound.
Lanterns glowed softly along the streets; cicadas chorused in the warm air.
Miyuki walked close enough to feel Kakashi’s presence.
Not close enough for anyone to question it.
Their silence wasn’t avoidance.
It was their language.
After a stretch, Miyuki said quietly:
“I woke up… and you were gone.”
She didn’t accuse. She simply offered the truth.
Kakashi nudged a pebble with his sandal.
“Had somewhere to be.”
Soft. Noncommittal.
Not a dismissal.
Her chest tightened.
“Tsunade-sama?”
A quiet thoughtful hum. Not quite yes, not quite no.
“…Did you talk about me?” she asked.
“Talk happens,” he said lightly.
So: yes.
She hesitated.
“…Did you tell her about us?”
Kakashi didn’t react outwardly.
Just slid his hand deeper into his pocket.
“Should I?” he asked, tone mild—but the question itself sharp.
Miyuki faltered.
“That’s not—why haven’t you?”
He took a slow breath.
“Because if I did, she’d reassign me.”
A pause, deliberate.
“And I’d prefer not to be reassigned.”
Her pulse stuttered.
He looked ahead, unreadable.
“And she may suspect something already.”
Miyuki grimaced.
“Was I that obvious?”
His mask curved faintly—his version of a smile.
“You stand out,” he said. “But only to those who know what to look for.”
They walked a few steps.
“So… nothing changes?” she asked. “Therapy. Missions. Bookstores. Training.”
Kakashi made a soft sound that could have meant anything.
“You may have more eyes on you,” he said eventually.
Too gentle.
Surveillance.
ANBU.
She watched the way he held his shoulders—relaxed on purpose. Kakashi never relaxed that much unless he was worried.
They walked the rest of the way in silence.
Not empty silence—shared silence.
They reached Miyuki’s street just as Sakura approached the house, exhausted.
She blinked.
“…Kakashi-sensei?”
Her eyes flicked between them.
“You walked her home?”
Kakashi didn’t react. Didn’t rush to clarify.
Miyuki answered first.
“Yeah. He was already nearby.”
Kakashi gave a quiet confirming hum.
Sakura frowned.
“Tsunade-sama only said your training needed updating.”
She squinted. “You were gone a long time.”
“It went fine,” Miyuki said gently. “Nothing serious.”
Kakashi gave her a very subtle glance—acknowledging the choice to soothe Sakura.
Sakura sighed in relief.
“Oh. Good.”
She looked at Kakashi again.
“So you’re… escort duty?”
Kakashi shrugged, hands in pockets.
“Just passing through.”
Sakura didn’t look convinced, but she was too tired to dig.
“Well… goodnight, Miyuki-nee. Kakashi-sensei.”
“Goodnight,” Miyuki said.
Kakashi inclined his head politely.
When Sakura disappeared inside, the awkwardness grew still.
Miyuki lingered on the step, arms folded loosely like she was holding something fragile in place.
Kakashi stood in half-shadow nearby.
Unreadable.
Too still for it to be casual—he was alert, wary.
Miyuki’s voice softened.
“We shouldn’t stay out here long.”
Kakashi’s head tilted.
“You think so?”
“Don’t you?”
A beat.
Kakashi huffed, amused.
“You’d make a decent operative,” he said. “If you could use chakra.”
She blinked.
“That’s supposed to be a compliment?”
“In my line of work,” he said, “that’s practically affection.”
Her face warmed.
If she reached for him—if she leaned toward that quiet gravity between them—someone would see. Someone would report it.
He knew it too.
“If it gets too heavy,” he said softly, “call for me.”
Her throat tightened.
He added, almost casually:
“Doesn’t matter who’s watching.”
Her breath caught.
Kakashi straightened, the air shifting around him—subtle, but decisive.
“…Get some rest,” he said.
And then he was gone—chakra flicker, whisper of presence, vanished into the night.
Miyuki exhaled slowly.
Whatever they were before could not survive under the village’s eyes.
But as long as he offered her even that small thread of truth—
that quiet, unwavering I’m here—
she would hold it.
She had to.