Cinders of the Plum

To some extent, Ino knew Umeko’s friendship was a farce. The Academy was filled with sycophants attempting to curry favor with the clan heirs. Of course, Ino didn’t think Umeko was any different — and she wasn’t — but Ino liked the power and attention.

Pretending to be her friend and follower was annoying, but it was easy. It didn’t take much, and Ino saw through most pretenses anyway. Just a nod here, an agreement there, and the Yamanaka heiress was satisfied.

These tasks, the upheaval, and the grand manipulation of Team 7 were new territory for Umeko. Her skills in getting what she wanted were better than most, but Sasuke saw right through her during the bell test. Fooling Naruto would be easy, but the Uchiha will prove to be a challenge.

Umeko needs to get creative.

Only six years ago, the Uchiha women were the epitome of fashion in Konohagakure. While the Uchiha Clan’s presence as the police force diminished their political power and made them persona non grata in many social circles, everyday civilians couldn’t help but admire the poise and grace the Uchiha wielded. From their clothes to their perfume, civilians copied the Uchiha women and even published style tips in civilian magazines. 

Umeko knows this because she spent the entire night studying such civilian magazines to find the slightest scrap of information on the Uchiha. The clan was secretive when it came to their skill set and family secrets, but Uchiha fashion habits didn’t fall under classified data. It was no recipe book, but it would suffice for Umeko’s last-minute purposes.

Feeling delirious from little sleep, Umeko began getting ready for her first day with her team in a state of zen that only hours of research and a heavy dose of dedication can achieve. When wrapping her rose gold sash on top of her cheongsam, she ties it in a decorative butterfly knot instead of winding the leftover length of cotton between the wrap. Her fingers slide through her curly locks, short enough that Umeko can afford to leave it down, but long enough to brush against the tops of her shoulders.

Umeko whistles to herself when she leaves the house, satisfied.

She’s the last to arrive at the meeting spot - bar Kakashi, of course. From a few rumors she’s heard, Kakashi’s tardiness is something to be expected going forward. Naruto waves enthusiastically at her, and Umeko forces a sweet smile. Sasuke leans against the bridge’s railing, looking off into the distance once more. Umeko ensures that her body faces him, trying to appear open and friendly.

Naruto makes conversation while they wait, and Umeko fiddles with the butterfly knot a few times, making sure not to ruin the elegant loops. With her fiddling, Naruto’s attention keeps straying to her sash in the middle of his words until finally -

“Say, Umeko, your sash isn’t usually like that.” Umeko smiles brightly at him, and her hands smooth down the knot.

“Ah, I thought I’d try something new!” From the corner of her eye, she can see Sasuke’s shoulders go stiff and his hand clenches in his white arm warmers. “It’s a butterfly knot, it was really popular around six-ish years ago. Is it pretty?”

Taking a step back, Umeko twirls on her foot to show off the sash. It wasn’t different other than the butterfly knot, but Umeko might as well commit to this vain demonstration. 

“Yeah, it looks really pretty!” Naruto agrees, nodding vigorously. This is too easy, Umeko thinks to herself.

She pauses as if deciding on something, “Well, I saw it in an old civilian magazine my grandfather keeps around. You probably aren’t into these types of things, but I can bring them tomorrow if you’re interested.”

Umeko highly doubts that Naruto is interested in fashion magazines, but anything that could constitute a shared interest will be met with nothing short of avid agreement. Like she expected, Naruto was pumped to take her up on her offer, and Umeko bored him with stupid fashion tips she saw in the magazine last night—most of these tips were inspired by Uchiha fashion trends.

By the time Kakashi arrived, an hour and a half later, Sasuke was silently fuming to himself. Umeko couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face, so she turned to Naruto and pretended that her smile was for him. 

The month Umeko first came to live with her grandfather, he presented her with a list of rules that she was required to follow. If any laws were broken, it was ten slaps of bamboo across her knuckles. Some of the rules listed made sense - curfews, chores, the like - but other rules seemed arbitrary and irrational. Such rules as brushing her teeth for precisely three minutes—no more, no less—and eating her meals in ten bites. Any food after the ten bites was thrown in the compost bin.

One day, nearly driven crazy by the list of over a hundred rules to memorize and follow, Umeko asked her grandfather about the meaning of the rules. He simply took a sip of tea and responded, “I have to break you down before I can build you up,” and then she received ten lashes on her calves for asking a question before midday.

Umeko hated that lesson, hated that list of rules, but he did break her down and build her back up, piece by piece, in the image he pictured. Now, Umeko will do the same for Sasuke.

The sharingan is unlocked through emotions, adrenaline, and what evokes more emotion than the slaughter of your clan? It’s cruel, creating a plan to remind Sasuke of his family every single day until he breaks. Umeko has enough of a heart to realize that, but any guilt is overshadowed by the ache in her nose and the bruise covered by makeup. 

The next day, Umeko arrives with her magazines. The models on the cover aren’t from the Uchiha Clan, but their pale skin and black hair are a blatant imitation of them. She sits on the ground with Naruto, looking over the pages and the covers unobstructed from Sasuke’s view.

Umeko even invites Sasuke to read the magazines with her. Sasuke takes one glance at the cover of the magazine she’s waving at him and walks across the bridge to rest under the trees. 

“Man, Sasuke is sucha bastard!” Naruto yells, incensed at Sasuke’s snub. With renewed interest, Naruto picks up a magazine and starts flipping through it. “Don’t worry, Umeko. I like reading with you.”

A voice that sounds like her grandfather echoes in her head, telling her not to forget the second part of her mission: control him.

She smiles and lays her hand gently on Naruto’s hand, “It’s okay, Naruto. You don’t have to pretend to like the magazines. We can do something else.”

“No, no! You like this stuff, right? I like it, too!” Naruto protests, though Umeko knows he’s been spacing out mid-conversation about fashion. If she’s being honest, Umeko doesn’t really like it either. She’s not so ignorant as to not know about her vanity, her love for pretty things, and being perfect, but she’s always preferred cuteness over the stiff elegance in the magazines.

“Thank you, Naruto. I really enjoy spending time with you.” Umeko leans back, resting on her hands, and catches Naruto’s eyes. She’s careful to maintain eye contact, forcing herself to project something akin to sincerity. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Yeah, of course! I swear I won’t tell anyone.” Naruto inches forward and glares suspiciously at Sasuke, still lounging at a distance.

Umeko scoots forward too, leaning in close and speaking quietly, “Mm, to be honest, I know I’m not as great or pretty as the other girls in our class. I had to work really hard, harder than they did, to make a good grade. I could never go shopping or eat with them because I was so busy training. Sometimes…I feel like they looked down on me because of it.”

It wasn’t really untruthful. Umeko wasn’t able to do things that all the other kids could do, confined to her grandfather’s strict schedule. Ino did look down on her, too, seeing her as nothing but her little puppet. The only difference is that Umeko’s pretending to care more than she actually does.

“That’s not true! You’re great.” Naruto said, and his hands grasped Umeko’s fidgeting ones. Umeko startled, not expecting the sudden declaration told with such conviction, and when she looked into Naruto’s eyes - it felt damning. Truly, Naruto was genuine in everything he does - even this. For the first time, the guilt is hard to swallow. “I kind of went through the same thing. Everyone looks down on me, too. Especially that bastard!”

Umeko doesn’t look when he gestures at Sasuke’s distant form. Instead, she’s forcing down the panic seizing her veins. He’s such an innocent boy, and Umeko will use that against him. At least with Sasuke, he’s tainted - his pain consumed him, and he came out just as cynical as she did. Naruto, though, despite the cruelty of everyone, is still so optimistic. 

Her hands feel dirty under Naruto’s clean touch, and she almost slips her fingers from his grip. Her nose still hurts from a snap of the cane, though, so Umeko squeezes Naruto’s hands and grins at him.

“We’re a lot alike, Naruto.” Umeko removes herself from his clutch and shifts backwards. She tucks her hands under her thighs so he can’t touch them again. “We’re a team within a team, you know? You and me, we understand each other.”

Umeko doesn’t think she understands him at all.

Kakashi arrives soon after, casual and indifferent as always. There’s a sharper edge to it today, he leaves several times in the midst of their D-rank missions. Naruto complains about it, and Sasuke looks disgruntled, but Umeko can’t help an inching suspicion.

Her next idea requires some investigation and thorough research. The information she needs isn’t easily accessible; it's not necessarily a classified secret, but rather an invasion of privacy. She only has one chance to gain access, and if she’s found out, it means a vicious beating.

Umeko transforms into her grandfather and spends hours in front of a floor-length mirror, ensuring every detail is perfect. It helps that she’s spent the last six years studying him, watching him through resentful eyes. When she finally approves of it, when his height is right to the exact centimeter and his eyes are the right shade of light brown, she leaves the house.

The Hokage tower is a vast, bulky cylinder of a beacon, and a short distance away. Her grandfather bought his current residence because of its easy access to Konoha’s main hub of administrative hell. As she walks the halls, multiple people scurry out of her way and give her a wide berth. Her grandfather’s pragmatic disposition and intolerance for failure must be widespread knowledge.

The accountant's corridor is near the back of the tower on the second floor, and the slow drudge of bookkeeping and deskwork is hidden from the flurry of activity everywhere else. The halls are dead quiet, and everyone’s eyes are dead when Umeko enters the main room.

No one really looks up or notices her, all of them hunched over scrolls and papers, penning numbers under aching fingers. It’s a relief not having to project the tenor of her grandfather’s voice, chakra rubbing against her vocal cords to change pitch. With the air of someone meant to be there, Umeko steps into the back storage room.

It’s a large storage room with ceiling-to-floor cabinets set up in rows. Each cabinet had a different label on it, some dedicated to tax forms of clans, and others reports for Konoha spending. There’s an advanced sorting system to it all that Umeko doesn’t fully understand, so she walks each aisle and skims the labels. 

She finds the cabinet she is looking for in the back corner, the drawers covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs sticking thickly to the handle. The fading yellow papered label declared it to be the tax forms of the Uchiha. Careful not to disturb too much dust, Umeko inches a drawer open with a single finger under the handle. It slides out in small budges, squeaking on rusty hinges, and she flinches with every squeal.

The drawer is sparser than she expected, with only a few papers filed over the last six years. With tense fingers, she pinches out the report from last year and flicks through the pages. When her eyes land on a heading titled “Properties,” she stops and scans the list.

Most of the Uchiha clan’s items were stored away after the massacre in their storage properties. Nearly the entirety of all Uchiha funds fell to Sasuke, with some of it being pulled for this or that. Among the yearly expenses draining the Uchiha account were property taxes, the funds being used to preserve Uchiha land until Sasuke decided what to do with it. Umeko’s fingers traced down the page, making note of every storage location. Some were blotted out in thick lines, probably sensitive addresses that held precious Uchiha heirlooms — but Umeko didn’t care about that.

With the few addresses memorized, she slipped them back into the drawer and left the storage room. Almost immediately, Umeko nearly collided with a small chuunin holding a clipboard. The nervous chuunin stared up at her with a quivering lip, unmissably intimidated by her grandfather’s visage. With trepidation, the chuunin nudged the clipboard towards her.

“S-Sorry, but it’s policy for e-everyone to sign off when entering the ar-archives.” The young shinobi stutters, and Umeko tries to summon her most surly, annoyed look. Her eyes narrow, and her lip barely curls in a mimicry of her grandfather. Despite the young shinobi seeming cowed, he still insists on holding out the clipboard with a trembling hand.

Knowing she might actually be signing her death warrant if this list reaches her grandfather, Umeko attempts to hold her hand steady as she pens her grandfather’s name in almost identical handwriting.

Three weeks after officially joining Team 7, Umeko breaks.

Not emotionally — something sinister forged her in blood and fury when she came to this world, and Umeko is beginning to doubt whether a heart beats beneath her chest at all. No, Umeko breaks under Naruto’s hopeful baby blue eyes and bashful, hesitant invitations.

Umeko agrees to try Ichiraku ramen with Naruto.

The only time Umeko indulged in ramen was in the Academy on days her allowance fell too short for her usual grab-and-go meals. The instant ramen tasted flavorless on her tongue and possessed an abnormal amount of crunch. Typically, gorging on food with such a lack of nutrients and vitamins would result in an insufferable lecture and scraped, bleeding knuckles. This evening, though, the Hokage summoned her grandfather to a council meeting, and Umeko could breathe easily for a few more hours.

“How’d ya cook it, really?” Naruto asked in an absurdly serious manner as they traveled the trodden path to the Ichiraku stall. “Two minutes on boil, right? Instant ramen is nowhere close to old man Teuchi’s ramen, but there shouldn’t be a crunch!”

Umeko figures that engaging in asinine conversation will win her a few points, so she genuinely tries to remember as much of her miserable Academy lunches as possible. Beyond the bland taste and tacky feeling of hard ramen sticking to her teeth, Umeko only recalls Ino’s annoying prattling and the inevitable dread of a day half spent.

Umeko shrugs and answers honestly, “I don’t really remember. Lunch time was always a blur.”

“Yeah,” Naruto smiles softly at her, his kind eyes oozing a repugnant empathy that made Umeko’s stomach churn. “Lunch was like that for me, too. Though…”

Curiosity piqued, Umeko studied Naruto’s profile in the setting sun with interest. Perhaps he’ll unveil a vulnerability she could exploit. Umeko prompts, “Though?”

“...it was the best time to sneak out!” Naruto grins mischievously at her, and she deflates in a whoosh of a breath.

“I guess I should’ve expected that,” Umeko mutters with a small amount of surliness, kicking a rock in her path. It ricochets off a nearby bench and slips into the tall grass bordering the road. Naruto just snickers next to her. She thinks about throttling him.

“Oh!” Naruto exclaims, pointing at a red bedecked stall a few meters away, “We’re here! C’mon, Umeko, I’m hungry!”

A sweaty, too-hot hand squeezes around her wrist, and Naruto tugs her towards Ichiraku. At his unbearable touch, which seemed almost as tight as a manacle around her guilty hands, Umeko grimaced and bit back a sharp retort.

Teuchi was an extraordinarily kind old man—or, perhaps, Umeko knew only bitter and cruel old men. He greeted Naruto with a large grin, and his resting face had prominent laugh lines that spoke of a jovial and happy life. His daughter, Ayame, as she introduced herself, had the same joyful and cheery disposition as her father. They chuckled at Naruto’s antics when he ordered five bowls of ramen for himself, each a different flavor, and happily offered a discount for their ‘favorite customer.’ It set Umeko’s teeth on edge as if she had bitten rhubarb, and she distracted herself from the sickening sight by studying the cheap, paper menu.

“And what would you like to order, miss?” Teuchi asks her once they stop teasing Naruto, his tone mirthful and glad. Umeko’s hackles rise, and her back muscles tighten — she rolls her shoulders in a jarring, quick movement to hide the unpleasant reaction.

Umeko stares sightlessly at the menu for a moment before shrugging her shoulders and saying in a faux cheery tone, “It all looks so good! Pick me for me, Naruto.”

Naruto is more than happy to do so and starts babbling about which ramen he should choose. Ayame watches Naruto with an indulgent fondness, and Teuchi laughs as he turns around to begin boiling Naruto’s noodles. Satisfied that the attention has been returned to her companion, Umeko stretches her tight shoulders and tunes out.

Naruto ends up choosing his favorite Ichiraku dish for her — miso ramen with extra chasu. It tastes better than Umeko expects, the pork is tender, and the broth adds a savory flavor to the meat. The company isn’t too awful either. As the sun draws closer and closer to the horizon, Naruto adopts a more mild, placid temper. There is still a rambunctious edge to him, and he yells a little too loudly when Umeko says frogs are slimy and gross. Still, it’s almost…serene.

Their meal only lasts for thirty minutes as Naruto devours all five of his bowls and Umeko, hungrier than she thought, eats with just slightly less gusto. Unexpectedly reluctant to depart, they linger another hour at the stand, joking about similarities between Kakashi and Sasuke and trading Academy stories. 

For that small slice of time, Umeko forgets.

“We’ve got to close up now, kids,” Teuchi tells them regretfully, interrupting Naruto’s tale of pranking the Hokage and meeting the most honorable grandson, Konohamaru.

From a small silk coin pouch, Umeko pays for her meal and drags her feet away from the stall. Naruto rummages clumsily in his frog coin purse for payment, some coins clattering to the ground in his hurry, which he then has to stoop down to retrieve. Without really thinking about it, Umeko waits for him.

Naruto pays Teuchi, and his smile broadens when he sees Umeko waiting for him. He rushes to her side, nearly tripping over a stick in his enthusiasm. “You waited!”

A warmth blooms in her gut, the sensation both pleasant and vile. She feels even sicker with herself when a blush blooms across her cheeks. “I thought we could walk for a little, it’s not that late, yet.”

I don’t want to go home.

“That sounds great!” Naruto cheers, and Umeko leads the way as they begin to amble through the sparse streets in quietness.

Uncharacteristically, Naruto is subdued and silent, his hands tucked into his pockets as he stares at the path they walk. Even more uncharacteristically, the overwhelming urge to break the silence overcomes Umeko. “Thank you, Naruto. I would’ve been eating cold rice if you didn’t invite me out.”

From the corner of her vision, she sees Naruto’s head tilt towards her and his lips pressing into a frown. Umeko doesn’t think she likes it when Naruto frowns — it seems unnatural.

“Would your…” Naruto stutters on the sentence and he sucks a breath in before starting over, “Would your parents not make supper for you? I hear Shikamaru and Choji talking about their mom’s cooking all the time…”

“I don’t live with my parents.” This truth slips out of her too quick, too easy. Umeko clears her throat and smiles, as if she can swallow down the vulnerability she shared, “My grandfather takes care of me, trains me, and stuff.”

“Are your parents…dead?” His hesitant words come in a whisper, desperation edging each syllable. Never has Umeko felt his loneliness so painfully and poignantly. 

Maybe it’s the night sky, a sliver of a moon suspended in the air, and a blue-toned, starless sky blanketing them that causes these slips of the tongue. Or, maybe, terrifyingly, disgustingly, Umeko wears her loneliness just as painfully and poignantly.

“My dad disowned me.” The summer night’s heat sticks to her, wringing all her secrets out of her like a sweaty palm around her neck. Umeko tries to smile, tries to ignore the ache behind her eyes and the lump in her throat. She can’t bring herself to look at Naruto, though she knows he’s staring at her.

A hand slips around her wrist and tugs at her. Reluctantly, Umeko returns Naruto’s gaze — and immediately regrets it. His expressive blue eyes mist over, and his lips tremble.

“You don’t have to fake a smile around me, Umeko.” Naruto declares, his words steel and stone and safe. His hand tightens around her wrist. “I’ll make you smile for real, dattebayo!”

The warmth in her gut returns, followed by a sensation of squirming worms that eat it away. You’re just a tool for me, Umeko thinks, and she wishes Naruto would just understand. Umeko almost wants to tell him. Instead, her smile slips away like a hidden detail in the dark, and she squeezes his hand back. “Okay.”

They part soon after that, and it's a devastating blow when she enters her house; the rooms feel stuffy, stagnant, and oppressive. With snappy, exhausted movements, Umeko struggles to slip her sandals off at the entrance, choking back unformed sobs the whole time. That devastation turns into something much worse when a shadow darkens the doorway.

Her next plan remained at a standstill until their next rest day. Umeko found her fingers fidgeting often, an antsy impatience vibrating through her core. 

She tied her sash normally, again, and left the fashion magazines at home for the next few days. Sasuke existed in her peripheral vision, but he became an intangible thing that Umeko couldn’t exert her control over anymore. In only a few days, he stopped flinching and glowering when he noticed her outfit or peeked at the magazine rolled into her hip pouch. Until she could retrieve what she needed, she was stuck in this state, glued to him.

So, Umeko redoubled her efforts with Naruto. At every turn, she integrated herself into his life — an enthusiastic friend who ate ramen with him, a thoughtful friend who brought him meals, his only friend whom he could trust. It was a balance act, suspended above two sides — one side being the kind and sweet girl she was supposed to be, the other sowing doubt in Naruto’s mind. 

In return for her friendship, Naruto invited her to everything under the sun after their dinner half a week prior. A movie, to the park, some solo training. Umeko accepted some, declined most — partly because she needed him to crave her attention and acceptance, but mainly because the guilt carved itself into a cavity in her gut. Umeko pushed that guilt as deep as she could. Still, Naruto never wavered, even when an ugliness rose in Umeko without cause and she lashed out before catching herself. He would just smile that sad grin and ask her if everything was okay. Umeko lied to Naruto a lot.

The worst lie she told wasn’t to serve her purpose, and that made it the most vile. 

For someone who didn’t seem to enjoy their presence, Kakashi made them take missions often — though, he never trained them. Umeko hadn’t experienced a rest day in two weeks, exhausted beyond belief. When she complained to him, all sweet smiles and wide eyes, he smiled that infuriating cheeky grin and said it was endurance training.

Her lie came during one such grueling day.

The day was hot, and sweat soaked through Umeko’s clothes. Makeup covering her bruises from half a week ago felt sticky and claustrophobic. Umeko was in a sour mood.

Together, the three genin on Team 7 toiled in a small garden for an elderly woman with a broken calf. Umeko decided she would get rid of weeds, her hands viciously pulling out the roots with a cathartic rip. She directed Naruto to the fertilizer and gestured to the watering can for Sasuke.

They always worked in silence until Naruto would break it with inane babbling about something or another — usually ramen. Sasuke would ignore him, and Umeko would nod, hum, and speak in all the right places without actually listening. An art, really, that she perfected around Ino.

This day, Naruto hunched over the plants as he swept fertilizer into the garden. He covered many topics, sometimes shifting subjects mid-sentence. Umeko bore it with a smile as her grimy hands twisted weed roots out of the garden bed. Sasuke walked up and down the garden, watering the plants and occasionally refilling the watering can.

An unnerving chill sparked against her neck every time he passed behind her.

“Oh! Umeko, you missed a weed!” Naruto pointed enthusiastically over her shoulder, interrupting his tangent about his landlord. There was a dispute about a broken window or something similar.

“Thank you for telling me, Naruto.” I can’t wait to go home.

On her knees, she shuffled around, only worsening the dirt stains on her clothing. Naruto followed her, bending down to point out the weed again with unnecessary scrutiny. At the same time, Sasuke meant to pass behind Naruto after filling up the watering can.

He tripped. Water splashed across Umeko’s face.

“Sasuke! Watch where you’re going!” Naruto leapt to his feet, and the usual heated exchange between them started up. Annoyed, Umeko used the only clean cloth — her nearly stainless top — and swiped the water from her face.

Silence descended.

“Umeko…” Naruto kneeled before her, and his blue eyes widened. Rough fingers gently grasped her shoulders, and he pulled her closer. “What happened to your face?”

The answer was that a lot happened. Her grandfather wasn’t impressed with her stunt at the Hokage tower after she came home from Ichiraku, even though she insisted it was to unlock Sasuke’s sharingan. The punishment was rougher than usual, lashes against her back and thighs. In an unusual burst of anger, the injustice simmering beneath her skin, she lashed back, saying she was only doing what was asked of her. That resulted in a few hits around the cheeks, his broad and harsh palm a reminder that he ruled her with an iron fist. The bruises and cuts would take longer to heal this time around.

Umeko didn’t say that. Instead, she smiled even though it hurt and pried his fingers from her shoulders. “Training accident. I have to keep up with you, right?”

Naruto seemed uneasy, but didn’t press the issue. Umeko wanted to throw up, the vulnerability blending her insides with anxiety.

The next day, when Naruto arrived with a medkit and carefully tended to her face, Umeko excused herself to a nearby public bathroom. Hunched over a toilet bowl in one of the stalls, she puked up her breakfast.

A break in their schedule came several days later, and Umeko’s bed taunted her temptingly like a siren. The idea of spending her full day off wrapped in her blankets and staring at her ceiling appealed to her exhausted mind. Unfortunately, there were other matters to deal with - namely, the addresses burning in her thoughts.

The warehouses were located on the outskirts of the village, near the old, abandoned Konoha police headquarters and the wall surrounding the Uchiha district. Sweat beaded her forehead from the typical summer days of Konoha as she inconspicuously walked the dusty paths. Even though time pressed in on her, urging her to run to the warehouse before she was caught in the act, Umeko maintained an even pace within the crowd.

The further and further she walked to the outskirts, the more sparse the streets became, until her lone shadow darkened the path. The abandoned Uchiha district suffered at the hands of time, and stalls and buildings were decrepit and in disrepair. Eerie chills crawled up Umeko’s spine as she walked through the ghost town, the absence of Konoha’s usually bustling streets a stark reminder of a bloody tragedy. Despite Konoha sending shinobi to clean the area, stubborn rusty red stains clung to neglected corners of the streets.

Not for the first time, but perhaps the most significant of times, Umeko questioned her grandfather’s orders. Reports say Sasuke witnessed it all, came home to streets awashed in blood, and Umeko plans to remind him of this sight deliberately. Her past willingness to do so is a mark on her soul that Umeko will never be able to cleanse. The continuous slap of her sandals against the ground is an indictment she will always carry. Because even though she resented her grandfather and her decision, never did she hesitate or think to turn around. Umeko understood that she was a selfish, evil creature when she entered this world with blood already on her hands. What’s a few more moments of selfishness when she’s already damned?

The first warehouse she came across was small and held uncategorized items. Things that couldn’t be traced back to their deceased owners, items broken in the fight, and seemingly essential scraps of buildings and stalls. A long wooden sign, cleaved in half, bore the katakana characters spelling "senbei"; Umeko figures it's the last remnants of the popular Uchiha Senbei food stall. Her finger glides through the dust on the chipped wood before she turns and leaves the warehouse.

The second warehouse contained records — birth records, death certificates, and one drawer that had been stuffed with miscellaneous receipts, which tipped ominously sideways. Umeko idled for half an hour, digging through the folders for any sensitive information, but it seemed to hold only the simplest of forms.

The third and last warehouse address Umeko had memorized was built closer to the heart of the Uchiha district. The building loomed bigger than the other two, though still squat like most of the buildings in the Uchiha district. Due to its size, the rusted door was larger than Umeko had anticipated, and she struggled for a few minutes trying to inch it open without breaking it. After one nasty budge that resulted in an ominous crack, the slight gap between the double doors widened enough for Umeko to slip through.

It was precisely what Umeko had been looking for: homeless items listed in personal property memoranda. Large racks towered to the ceiling of the warehouse, dusty and forgotten items stacked haphazardly onto the steel slatted shelves. Every item in this warehouse had been listed in an Uchiha’s will and memorandum, sorted and separated by the testator’s name. The inheritors of most of these items were slaughtered right beside the decedent. As a matter of fact, all of the heirs died — except for one.

In the back of the warehouse, as if protecting their clan head’s property from robbers and raiders, a pile of items nearly spilled off the bottom shelf. The metal edge of the shelf read: Uchiha Fugaku.

A wave of impatience crashed over her, and Umeko scrabbled onto her hands and knees. She sifted through the items, selecting only a few to seal into her storage scroll. A familiar well of guilt began building in her stomach; Umeko’s movements became even more hurried and inelegant. Her hands caught on a cookbook, the corner of the hard cover digging into her wrist, and Umeko flipped it open, frustrated. Inside the cover, in an elegant scrawl, katakana penned Uchiha Mikoto across the hardback. 

Trembling fingers flip through the pages, thick with a mix of printed words and handwritten notes. Uchiha Mikoto kept a meticulous record of her alterations to the recipes, her family’s reaction, and the subsequent changes. Every etch of katakana radiated love, sometimes the lead of her pencil deepening in evident fervor, and other times a slight, hurried scratch of last-minute changes.

Uchiha Mikoto’s scrawl completely overtook one page dedicated to a recipe for tomato curry. Something thick and emotional burned behind Umeko’s eyes as she carefully read the crossed-out recipe additions that were stacked on top of even more crossed-out changes. In the right margin, she rewrote the recipe with her preferred revisions. And, in the bottom right corner, Uchiha Mikoto squeezed in a small sentence, nearly engulfed by her other scribbles:

Peel the tomatoes - Sasuke never says so, but he notices.

Like the smell of burnt bread and the taste of savory karaage on a winter night. Umeko swallows and delicately tucks the cookbook into the sealing scroll.

When Umeko left the warehouse, it was with downcast eyes and her guilty, wretched hands tucked under her arms.

She stops for groceries.

The three medium-ripe tomatoes almost roll off the cutting board, their thin, membrane-like skin wet from a thorough wash under the sink. With a delicate and unsure hand, Umeko scores the bottom of each tomato with crisscrossing slashes, the lines uneven and wonky. Bubbles foam over the rim of a pot on the stove, water boiling with the violence of a battlefield. Water sloshes onto the floor each time Umeko drops a tomato in, some of it even splashing onto Umeko’s wrist and exposed toes. Other than a swift hiss of breath, she ignores it and waits a few seconds poised over the pot, until she begins to see the skins peeling back from the fruit—vegetable?

After fishing the tomatoes from the boiling water, she ices them and then peels them completely. The beef and pork are seasoned with the exact measurements listed in Uchiha Mikoto’s penmanship. Potatoes sliced into too thick chunks, and Umeko swears as she tries to recut them smaller until all of them are too small. When searing the beef and pork slices, they come back a little blackened and stiff.

An hour later, Umeko stares at four bento boxes stuffed full of rice and a slop-like curry of burnt meat and overcooked tomatoes. Cursing, she empties each bento box over the trashcan, her hand slapping the bottom, and a spoon scooping up the slop.

After three different attempts, Umeko is finally pleased. She spoons it into the bento boxes with a reverence, each portion measured exactly and laid with burning precision. It's 3 AM when Umeko glares at the clock, each beat of the ticking hands sounding like the bell tolls after the Uchiha Massacre.

She scrubs each dish with a viciousness, the kitchen silent except for that damn clock ticking away like a countdown until she will come face-to-face with Mikoto’s motherly wrath in the afterlife. The metal of the pot bends slightly under her wrinkly fingers and red knuckles. Her reflection in the soapy dishwater ripples, contorting her mirrored self until it echoes the twisted feelings she harbors inside.

Umeko slams the pot down and turns to shove the bento boxes into the fridge, her arms trembling with self-loathing. A harsh hand shuts the fridge door, and she stares at it - the bloody hands of a cruel manipulator, a cold murderer.

In the margins of a worn cookbook, Uchiha Mikoto weaved her love into a letter of ink and ingredients for her youngest son. At noon, Umeko will serve it to Sasuke like a final supper of tomatoes and treachery.