She froze, her gaze meeting his in the mirror.
The moonlight had just faded from the horizon. The sky wasn't fully bright yet, and the shop was lit by a dim, yellowish lamp.
Shinji's face was somewhat blurred in the mirror, but his eyes were clear, calm like a deep pool, yet something seemed to stir within its depths.
It was faint, very faint, like a warmth rising from the very bottom.
She looked for a long time, then smiled.
It was a smile of relief, a smile of finally having obtained something.
She just stood there, wearing the simplest shiromuku. The lamplight fell upon her, and his gaze fell upon her too.
Sounds of early risers came from outside.
Some were hanging lanterns, some were setting up tables, some were calling to each other, 'Over here!' 'A little higher over there!'
Those voices mingled together, creating a liveliness unlike the Hidden Mist Village.
Mei Terumī suddenly remembered the year she was nine.
No one sat beside her in the classroom. Those empty seats were like an invisible wall, isolating her from everyone else.
She sat there, like a forgotten stone, watching the tides of people surge and recede around her, never wetting the hem of her clothes.
She thought this was how her life would be.
Living under the gray sky, killing, and then dying.
Just like her mother, just like those Kekkei Genkai families that were purged, disappearing silently in this perpetually gray Village.
Turns out, it wasn't so.
Turns out, she could also have a happier kind of happiness.
She turned around and looked at him.
'Let's go.'
The wedding was in the afternoon.
The sky was a blue so unreal, as if washed by water, not a single cloud, just spread overhead, endlessly vast.
The sky over the Hidden Mist Village had never been this blue before.
So blue that people who had lived half their lives stood on the street, craning their necks, looking and looking again, still unable to believe it.
Red lanterns hung all along the street, stretching from the Village entrance to the center, clusters swaying gently in the wind.
The Hidden Mist Village had become a sea of crimson.
Even the mist seemed tinged with it, like a red tide.
Under the sunlight, those reds were especially vivid, as if trying to burn away decades of gray.
Every household had them hanging at their doors—some newly made, some dug out from the bottoms of chests.
Hidden away during their own weddings decades ago, finally able to be brought out today.
Children chased each other, holding sparklers they'd gotten from who-knows-where, drawing trails of golden light in the afternoon sun.
Those lights trailed long tails, illuminating the children's faces, their grinning mouths showing teeth, and also the eyes of the adults watching from doorways.
Some watched until their eyes grew red.
...
Shinji stood at the edge of the crowd.
He looked at those red lanterns, at those laughing, playing children, at those people standing together talking.
This was the liveliest day he had seen in fifteen years, livelier than all the festivals combined.
He looked towards the distant platform.
She wasn't there yet; the ceremony hadn't begun.
But she would appear soon, wearing that shiromuku, standing under everyone's gaze.
The Mizukage succession ceremony was held first.
Mei Terumī stood on the platform, wearing the shiromuku. The sunlight was good, the kind that made everything shine.
The shiromuku glowed with a soft halo, the few plum blossoms at the collar almost melting into the white.
Below, a sea of dark heads.
Stretching from the platform to the end of the square: Anbu, Jonin, Chunin, Genin, and children who had just entered the ninja academy.
Everyone bowed their heads in unison, paying their respects to her.
The movement was synchronized, like a black tide, uniformly lowering, uniformly pausing.
Sunlight shone upon her. It made the shiromuku gleam, casting her shadow onto the platform, stretching it long.
She stood there, looking at that sea of bowed heads.
Those who had once gossiped about her, those who had once isolated her, those who had once waited to see her die on a mission.
Now, all were bowing their heads, paying respects to her.
Mei Terumī should have been happy, but she wasn't.
She turned to look for Shinji.
He was standing there. At the edge of the platform, in the sunlight.
Shinji looked at her.
The moment their eyes met.
'So beautiful.'
Shinji had never seen such a beautiful woman.
And this was a woman who belonged only to him, a woman who loved him with her whole heart.
They had been together for 15 years, from studying to graduation to the war years, walking this path together, finally achieving this result.
So happy...
Shinji held back his tears and nodded.
It was light, just a slight movement of his chin.
Mei Terumī also felt this happiness and suddenly wanted to cry.
Her eyes grew sore, her throat tightened. Something surged up from the depths of her heart, reaching the corners of her eyes, swirling, wanting to fall.
But she held it back.
She just stood there, wearing that shiromuku, shining brilliantly in the sunlight and under everyone's gaze.
Then she turned back to face the people below who were still bowing.
The ceremony ended, and the banquet began.
Long tables were filled again, wine jars were brought out from everywhere.
People freed themselves from the solemn ranks, began to laugh, to make noise, to raise bowls and look for people to toast.
Kisame stood in the first row of the guest seats. He wore a dark kimono, the collar neat, the obi tied meticulously.
The bandage-wrapped Samehada that usually rested on his shoulder was gone, replaced by an ordinary sword with a black sheath.
He stood straighter than ever, his face expressionless, but his eyes kept watching the platform, watching the woman in the shiromuku.
Zabuza didn't come. He sent the gift money with someone.
A piece of paper wrapped a thick stack of money. On the paper was a sentence, scrawled: 'Don't let me see you in a shiromuku.'
Ao drank too much. He had been crying since the ceremony started, tears streaming down his wrinkled face, into his beard, dripping onto his collar.
He cried and wiped with the back of his hand, unable to wipe them all away. Mid-sob, he grabbed Chōjūrō beside him, burying his face in his shoulder.
Chōjūrō, choked by his grip, his face turning red, struggled while clapping, shouting 'Good, good!'
Turning to look, even Kisame Hoshigaki in the corner had silently reddened eyes, clapping and cheering, his voice even louder.
When Mei Terumī raised her cup, Shinji walked over.
He passed through the crowd and came to her side.
In his hand was a wine jug, taken from who-knows-when.
Shinji stood beside her and poured wine for her. The liquid flowed from the spout into the cup, making a faint sound.
'Don't drink too much,' he said.
Mei Terumī looked down at the cup of wine.
The wine was clear, reflecting the clouds in the sky and her face.
'No! Because today is the happiest day of my life.'
She drank it.
The wine was a bit sour, but she didn't mind.
Shinji stood there, watching her drink that cup of wine.
Watching her throat move, watching that mouthful of wine flow into her body.
Then Shinji looked away.
He couldn't look at Mei Terumī; looking would make him think of other things.
Thinking of other things would make him unable to do it.
If he couldn't do it, these fifteen years would be wasted.
He knew, he knew it all.
But he still looked; he couldn't help it.
He watched her standing in the sunlight, wearing that shiromuku, holding an empty cup, a trace of wine still at the corner of her mouth.
Fifteen years.
Shinji had always stood behind her, watching her.
From that little girl pinned to the ground, to the Village Kage standing before everyone today.
Today was the last day.
A sourness, born of happiness or something else, filled his heart, thumping incessantly.
Shinji suddenly really wanted to speak.
Wanted to pull Mei Terumī into a corner and tell her.
Tell her what?
Tell her those words that couldn't be spoken?
Tell her how many times in these fifteen years he had almost been unable to hold back?
Tell her how much he wanted to pick her up and never let go every time she fell?
Tell her...
But, Shinji couldn't say it.
He raised his head and looked at Mei Terumī.
Emotions churned and struggled violently in his eyes.
'What's wrong?' Mei Terumī asked.
'...Nothing.'
Shinji said. Then he looked away, into the distance.
In the distance, unfamiliar forehead protectors appeared among the crowd.
The symbol of Konoha.
Shinji saw it.
He knew it was time.
He knew what would happen next.
But he still stood there, beside Mei Terumī, not taking a single step away.
Mei Terumī saw it too. She stepped in front of Shinji, wanting to shout.
Shout for help, shout for Kisame, shout for Ao, shout for anyone who could help her.
But she couldn't shout; she couldn't muster her Chakra.
The feeling was all too familiar—a sealing technique, mixed in the wine. The potency wasn't strong, but enough to make her lose her fighting ability for a short time.
Living a life on the edge of a blade every day, she should have seen through this trick at a glance.
She should have tasted it.
The Hidden Mist Village didn't have wine this sour.
But it was wine poured by Shinji; how could she doubt it?
Thud—
A ninja sword pierced her back, emerging from her chest.
She knelt down.
Her knees hit the ground; it hurt.
But not as much as the hole in her heart.
Because her eyes recognized the owner of the ninja sword.
That hole was growing, devouring everything.
Those years, those words, those things she thought were true.
Mei Terumī grabbed the hem of Shinji's kimono.
This formal attire was ironed smooth by her own hands.
This morning, just as the sun rose.
She stood by the window, holding an iron, smoothing out that dark kimono until there wasn't a single wrinkle.
Shinji stood watching, saying it didn't need to be so meticulous.
She said no, today is a good day.
Now that hand gripped that perfectly ironed hem.
Her knuckles turned white.
Mei Terumī looked up at Shinji.
'Impossible... Why...'
Her voice was hoarse, almost inaudible.
Those three words squeezed out from deep in her throat, carrying the taste of blood, the sourness of the wine, and all the questions she hadn't asked in ten years.
Shinji looked down at Mei Terumī's hand clutching his hem. That hand was shaking, shaking badly.
He didn't dare look at her.
'I'm sorry...'
The three words he said fell into Mei Terumī's ears, light as a feather.
But when they landed, they were heavy as stones.
Sunlight fell between the two of them.
Shouts and sounds of fighting came from the distance.
Some resisted, some were killed, some who drank too much fell to the ground. Those sounds were far away, as if from another world.
Mei Terumī knelt there, clutching Shinji's hem, her knuckles white.
'It must be an illusion...'
Her voice squeezed out from between her teeth, light as a wisp of smoke.
Shinji heard it, every word clearly.
He didn't answer.
Couldn't answer.
In Mei Terumī's eyes were pain, disbelief, things shattered into pieces.
'Did you ever...'
The question wasn't finished.
Not because she couldn't ask, but because she didn't dare hear the answer.
Shinji said nothing.
He just stood there, watching Mei Terumī fall.
The shiromuku spread on the ground like snow. Her hair spilled out, falling on that snow, tea-brown, disheveled.
There was still blood on her face, from who-knows-where. A bit at the corner of her mouth too, from where she'd bitten it earlier.
Shinji stood like that, watching her.
Didn't crouch down, didn't reach out, didn't say a word.
But his tears flowed freely now.
Sliding from the corners of his eyes, down his cheeks, into the corners of his mouth—sour, bitter.
He stood like that, crying, watching her.
He thought no one would see.
But Minato Namikaze saw.
The golden-haired man walked to his side and saw that tear. He didn't speak.
Just stood there, looking at Shinji's profile, at the crack that had finally appeared on that eternally calm face.
'It's over,' Minato Namikaze said, his voice very soft.
Shinji didn't answer. He was still looking at the woman on the ground, the woman he loved most.
'Why is it so sour?'
Was it Zhuangzi dreaming of the butterfly, or the butterfly dreaming of Zhuangzi?
Shinji didn't know.
But he knew his heart ached so sourly now, as if being lightly scraped by a knife, over and over.
Minato Namikaze didn't understand and said again, 'You've completed the mission. You can return.'
Shinji finally moved.
Under Minato Namikaze's horrified gaze, he pulled the ninja sword from Mei Terumī's chest and plunged it into his own heart.
The blood of two people stained the blade red.
And made his heart ache a little less.
'I'm sorry.'
Shinji raised his head and looked at the distant sky.
The morning sun had hidden itself in the clouds again, and a mist filled the air.
The Hidden Mist Village always had a gray sky.
Today was no different.
[Volume One: Sour Mist · End]