The first time it happened, nobody noticed.
Not even Haruki.
A few weeks had passed since the conversation at the docks.
Life continued as it always had.
The fishermen rose before dawn.
The sea remained cold.
The mist lingered.
And adults still lowered their voices whenever certain subjects appeared.
For a four-year-old, however, life was simpler.
There were chores to avoid.
Games to play.
And endless questions that adults rarely answered.
On this particular morning, Haruki sat cross-legged on the wooden floor of his home, staring intently at a small bowl of water.
The bowl stared back.
Haruki frowned.
"You should be drinking that."
His mother stood nearby preparing breakfast.
"I know."
"Then drink it."
"I'm thinking."
Aiko sighed.
That answer sounded far too much like Yukio.
"And what exactly are you thinking about?"
Haruki leaned closer to the bowl.
"The water moves."
Aiko glanced over.
It looked perfectly still.
"No, it doesn't."
"It does."
"Haruki."
"It does."
She shook her head and returned to cooking.
Children imagined strange things.
That was normal.
At least, that was what she told herself.
Haruki continued staring.
The surface rippled slightly.
Tiny waves formed.
Then disappeared.
His eyes widened.
There!
It moved again.
The moment he reached toward it, however, the water became completely still.
His excitement vanished.
"Huh?"
He poked the bowl.
Nothing.
Maybe he imagined it.
Again.
That happened a lot.
The boy eventually gave up and drank the water.
Still, the feeling lingered.
Something strange had happened.
He just couldn't explain what.
That afternoon, the weather turned colder.
Dark clouds gathered above the village.
The sea winds carried a biting chill.
Haruki and several other children were playing near the shoreline when one of them pointed toward the sky.
"It's going to snow."
"No it isn't."
"Is too."
"Is not."
Haruki ignored the argument.
His attention was fixed elsewhere.
A flock of birds had landed near the docks.
There were dozens of them.
The sight fascinated him.
He slowly approached.
The birds immediately scattered.
Haruki stopped.
Disappointed.
Then he noticed something odd.
The wooden railing where he'd been standing looked different.
He crouched.
Touched it.
Cold.
Very cold.
Colder than the rest.
A thin layer of frost covered the surface.
Haruki blinked.
The frost vanished almost immediately.
As if it had never existed.
His small hand remained on the wood.
"What was that?"
A gust of wind answered.
Nothing more.
The other children continued arguing about snow.
Nobody else seemed to have seen it.
Eventually Haruki returned home.
Yet throughout the entire walk, he couldn't stop thinking about the frost.
That night, Yukio returned later than usual.
The atmosphere in the house immediately changed.
Haruki noticed.
Adults often thought children were oblivious.
They weren't.
His father looked tired.
More tired than normal.
The lines around his eyes seemed deeper.
As dinner progressed, the conversation remained light.
Mostly.
Until Haruki spoke.
"Dad."
Yukio looked up.
"Yes?"
"The water moved."
Aiko froze.
Yukio's chopsticks stopped halfway to his mouth.
"What do you mean?"
Haruki explained.
The bowl.
The ripples.
The strange feeling.
The frost near the docks.
Every detail he could remember.
Neither parent interrupted.
When he finished, silence filled the room.
The kind of silence Haruki had learned to recognize.
The dangerous kind.
Aiko slowly looked at Yukio.
Yukio looked back.
Neither spoke.
Haruki shifted uncomfortably.
"Did I do something wrong?"
The answer came immediately.
"No."
Far too quickly.
Far too firmly.
His father set down his chopsticks.
Then forced a smile.
"It was probably your imagination."
"Oh."
Disappointment flickered across Haruki's face.
Yukio hated seeing it.
Because he was lying.
And both adults knew it.
The signs were small.
Tiny.
Barely worth mentioning.
Yet they recognized them.
They remembered stories.
Old stories.
Stories passed through generations of the Yuki Clan.
Stories about children who felt chakra long before they understood what chakra was.
Stories about cold following strong emotions.
About frost appearing without explanation.
About water responding.
The signs were faint.
But they were there.
And that terrified them.
Because Haruki was only four.
Far too young.
Far too young.
Later that night, after Haruki had fallen asleep, his parents sat together beside a single lantern.
Neither spoke for several minutes.
The flame crackled softly.
Finally Aiko broke the silence.
"You felt it too."
It wasn't a question.
Yukio nodded.
"The signs are beginning."
Her grip tightened around her cup.
"So soon?"
"I hoped we'd have more time."
Aiko stared toward the closed bedroom door.
Toward their sleeping son.
"What do we do?"
Yukio's gaze lingered on the darkness beyond the window.
The mist outside concealed the village.
The world.
The dangers waiting beyond it.
"We wait."
"And if it gets stronger?"
His expression hardened.
"Then we teach him."
The answer carried no hesitation.
Only certainty.
Aiko lowered her eyes.
For years she had prayed Haruki would inherit nothing.
No bloodline.
No curse.
No reason to hide.
Now that hope was beginning to fade.
And both of them knew it.
Outside, snow finally began to fall.
Soft flakes drifted through the mist.
Silent.
Gentle.
Beautiful.
Unnoticed by most of the village.
But not by Yukio.
As he stared out the window, he noticed something strange.
The snowfall above their roof was thicker than anywhere else.
As though winter itself had paused over their home.
Watching.
Waiting.
Yukio's expression darkened.
The signs were growing.
And sooner or later, Haruki would begin asking questions neither parent could avoid answering.