ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪꜱᴛ | ᴛᴇɴᴛᴇɴ ꜰꜰ|

Chapter 67

The room was quiet, save for the faint rustle of the wind outside the Sarutobi compound. The warm glow of sunset filtered through the thin curtains, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. Ugetsu sat cross-legged in front of a small shrine tucked into the corner of his room. It wasn't elaborate—just a modest setup of incense, a few candles, and an old ceramic bowl filled with water. There was no picture of his mother, Ayame, for he had none. No portraits or paintings, no photographs to remind him of her face. But he didn't need them.

The shrine itself was enough—a place of stillness, of quiet remembrance. It had taken him some time to build the shrine, finding the right pieces to feel close to her. Now, it was his refuge, the one place where he allowed himself to be vulnerable.

Ugetsu's hands rested on his knees as he bowed his head. His spiky white hair fell into his eyes, hiding the turmoil that flickered there. The incense smoke swirled in the air before him, the familiar scent bringing back long-buried memories. His chest tightened, and he inhaled slowly, letting the moment settle over him like a thick fog.

"Mother..."

His thoughts were heavy, weighed down by years of unspoken grief. He had been trying for so long to push it down, to forget the ache in his heart whenever he thought of her. But he couldn't—not here, not in front of the shrine.

"I've wanted to visit you for so long. To stand by your grave, to pay my respects properly."

His voice was barely above a whisper, as though he feared breaking the quiet of the room. The water in the bowl before him shimmered faintly under the candlelight, its surface calm and still. Water had always been their connection, even from the earliest days when she'd gently taught him the basics of water manipulation, her soft voice guiding him through the simplest techniques.

"But I can't go back to the Hidden Mist again to see you. Not yet. Father... the clan... they're still there, waiting. I can't face them."

A sharp edge of bitterness crept into his tone as he thought of his father, Chigetsu. His fists clenched slightly on his knees, the memories of his father's harshness, the suffocating expectations, and the emotional neglect swirling in his mind. He hated the idea of returning to the place where his worst nightmares began, where he had been raised as nothing more than a weapon.

"I never grieved for you properly. I'm sorry."

His voice cracked as he spoke the words, and he swallowed hard, trying to force down the lump that had formed in his throat. Ugetsu had been so young when she passed—too young to truly understand the magnitude of the loss, too young to process the pain. In the years following her death, there had been no time to mourn. His father had ensured that his life was one of relentless training and ruthless discipline. There had been no room for tears, no space for weakness.

"I should have cried for you. I should have let myself feel it."

He exhaled slowly, the tightness in his chest easing slightly as the words left his lips. But even now, at fifteen, he still struggled with the grief that had been buried deep inside him. The shrine was the only place he allowed himself to feel this way—to let the walls he had built around his heart crack, even just for a moment.

"You were the only one who cared for me, the only one who was kind. And I didn't even give you the respect you deserved when you were gone."

The weight of guilt pressed down on him, heavier than it had ever felt before. He had spent years trying to distance himself from the pain, from the memories of her, because it hurt too much to think about. But sitting here, in front of this humble shrine, there was no escaping it. There was only the truth—raw and painful as it was.

"I hope you're at peace. I hope you understand why I can't come to visit you. But I promise, I'll keep you close in my heart."

The candlelight flickered as if responding to his words, casting long shadows on the walls. Ugetsu stared into the flames, watching them dance and sway. His fingers twitched slightly, the urge to reach out and touch the water in the bowl, to feel that connection again. But he held back, unsure if he deserved even that small comfort.

He closed his eyes again, his heart heavy with the weight of everything he hadn't said. The silence in the room was almost suffocating, but it felt right—like a shared moment between mother and son, even if only in spirit.

"I'll keep working hard, just like you always told me. I'll make you proud."

His voice was barely audible now, as though speaking any louder would break the fragile moment. He bowed his head lower, pressing his forehead to the floor in a gesture of deep respect. The ache in his chest hadn't gone away, but for the first time in years, it felt as though he had finally allowed himself to face it.

He wasn't sure if his mother could hear him—whether in some distant afterlife, her spirit watched over him. But he liked to believe she did. That somehow, she knew he was thinking of her, that he hadn't forgotten.

Rising slowly, Ugetsu took one last look at the shrine before stepping back. The water in the bowl shimmered, as still and calm as his mother had been during his childhood. He felt a flicker of peace wash over him, though it was fleeting.

"Goodnight, Mother."

He turned away, the candles behind him still burning brightly. As he walked toward the door, Ugetsu knew the shrine would always be there—a place for him to come back to when the world felt too heavy, a place where he could grieve for his mother in his own way, even if he could never visit her grave.

It was all he had, but for now, it was enough.