Yellow Light

The Uchiha Clan District was very quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that came with morning—where birds chirped, distant waterwheels creaked, and neighbors opened their doors. It was two in the afternoon. The sun still hung overhead, yet the entire Uchiha Clan District seemed sealed beneath a transparent glass dome, with every sound shut outside.

Shuo Ye sat in the corner of the living room, his back against the wall.

He had been sitting there for six days.

Half-eaten rice ball wrappers, several empty cups, and an unopened roll of bandages lay scattered across the floor. The curtains were drawn, with only a thin shaft of light slipping through a crack and falling across the floor like a narrow wound.

His eyes hurt.

The Mangekyō Sharingan's power had reached its peak that day, then receded like the tide. His Sharingan remained at three tomoe now, but his vision had begun to fail—distant things blurred, words on a page doubled, and by evening, the corner of his left eye would throb faintly.

He had not told anyone.

He had not told anyone anything.

Six days ago, he had locked himself in this house, drawn the curtains, and turned off his phone—no, this world had no phones—he had turned off his communicator. On the first day, he had eaten nothing. On the second, he drank half a pot of cold tea. On the third, he found a bag of frozen rice balls in the kitchen, microwaved two, and ate them sitting on the floor.

He could not remember the taste at all.

He only remembered that night.

That voice. The footsteps. The sound of a blade slicing through the air.

His father had fallen at the study door. His mother had fallen in the hallway. Blood seeped through the gaps in the floorboards and flowed to his feet, still warm.

He remembered opening his Sharingan. The Mangekyō Sharingan. Both eyes had opened at once. It felt as though someone had lit a fire inside his skull, burning from his eyeballs to his optic nerves and all the way to the back of his head. The pain had driven him to his knees, but he had not stopped—he stood up and aimed his Sharingan at those red eyes.

Then he remembered nothing.

When he woke, he was in a hospital bed. The Third Hokage sat beside him, his gray hair older than grandfather's. There was little expression on the old man's face, but his eyes held something Shuo Ye could not understand—guilt? Pity? Or something else?

"Your injuries have been treated," the Third Hokage said. "As for the matter of the Uchiha Clan... Itachi, we will deal with it."

He did not listen to the rest. He pulled out the needle and left.

Six days had passed since then.

Someone knocked on the door.

"Knock, knock, knock."

Three times. A very standard rhythm, each knock equally forceful, like the kind taught at the Ninja Academy.

Shuo Ye did not move.

He sat curled up in the corner, his knees pressed against his chest and his chin resting on them. His eyes stared at the opposite wall. There was nothing on it—where the family portrait had once hung, only a pale rectangular mark remained, slightly whiter than the surrounding plaster.

"Knock, knock, knock."

Three more times.

He did not move.

Wind rustled outside the window. The curtain lifted slightly, then dropped back down. The sunlight shifted across the floor, that narrow beam turning slowly like the hand of a clock.

The knocking stopped.

Footsteps—two people, walking away. A door closed. Silence covered everything once again.

Shuo Ye closed his eyes.

—Then opened them again.

An hour.

Or roughly an hour. He had not checked the time. The room was too dark to tell day from night; he could only judge how much time had passed by how hungry he felt.

Just when he thought no one else would come today—

"Knockknockknockknockknockknock—"

This time was different. The rhythm was much faster, the force uneven, some heavy and some light, as though someone were slapping the door with their palm instead of knocking with their knuckles.

"Uchiha! Uchiha Sakuya!"

The voice carried through the door, still perfectly clear despite the wooden panel between them.

It was Naruto.

Shuo Ye's fingers curled against the floor.

"Iruka-sensei said you were sick—you, you aren't about to die, are you?! You haven't come to class for a whole week!"

Shuo Ye did not answer.

The voice outside fell silent for several seconds.

"I know you're in there! The door isn't locked—uh, no, it is. But I can climb in through the window—"

"Don't climb in." Shuo Ye's voice came from inside, dry and low, not at all like the voice a seven-year-old should have had.

Silence fell outside.

Then came a faint rustling sound, as though something had been set on the floor. After that came a creak—the hallway window opened, then shut again.

Shuo Ye thought Naruto had climbed in through it.

But there was no sound afterward.

The silence lasted about two minutes.

Then Naruto's voice came from outside again, much quieter this time, as though he were speaking through the crack beneath the door.

"...I brought you ramen."

A pause.

"From Ichiraku. Tonkotsu flavor."

Another pause.

"I left it by the door. It's fine if it gets cold. Cold ramen is good too."

Then came footsteps. Very light ones, heading away.

After a few steps, they stopped again.

"It's fine if you don't want to see anyone," Naruto said. "I just came to bring you some ramen."

The footsteps resumed, gradually fading until they disappeared at the end of the hallway.

Shuo Ye sat in the corner, listening as those sounds vanished bit by bit.

He lowered his head and looked at his hands. His fingers were thin, and there was still something under his nails that he had not washed away—he did not want to think about what it was.

Ramen.

In the end, he stood up.

His legs were numb. He had sat in that corner for too long; his knees felt rusted, and he staggered as he rose, steadying himself against the wall. Slowly, he walked to the door. Every step felt heavy, as if he were treading on cotton.

He opened the door.

The hallway was empty. Sunlight streamed in through the window at the far end, shining brightly on the wooden floorboards.

A paper bag sat outside the door, with a paper cup leaning beside it. The bag was orange, an Ichiraku Ramen takeout bag, printed with that smiling fish cake face.

Shuo Ye bent down and picked up the bag. It was still warm—no, it had already gone cold, but not icy cold. It was the temperature of something that had been cold for a long time, seeping into his palm—not hot, but carrying a dull sort of warmth.

He opened the bag.

A bowl of ramen. The noodles had gone soft and clumped together, a thin film of oil floated on the broth, and three slices of chashu lay crookedly on top, one half-hanging over the rim of the bowl.

This had not been made at the shop—it was something Naruto had packed up himself, then carried all the way here at a run. The journey had jostled it, clumping the noodles and spilling some broth; a few droplets clung to the outside of the paper cup.

Shuo Ye looked at the bowl of ramen.

His eyes did not grow wet. He seemed to have forgotten how to cry.

But he stood in the doorway for a long time, holding that cold bowl of ramen.

Then he carried it inside.

He did not close the door.

He sat at the low table in the living room, set the ramen down, picked up the chopsticks, and lifted a mouthful of noodles into his mouth.

Cold. The noodles had clumped together, and the broth had become much blander.

But—it was good.

Really good. It was the first decent thing he had eaten in six days. It was as if someone had flipped a switch on his taste buds, and sensations rushed in one after another—the rich savor of pork bone broth, the fatty fragrance of chashu, the strange sweetness of softened scallions.

He ate mouthful by mouthful, neither fast nor slow.

When he was halfway through, footsteps sounded in the hallway.

Very light. At first, he thought he was hearing things—after staying indoors for six days, his ears had begun picking up all sorts of strange sounds. Sometimes it was the wind. Sometimes it was his mother calling him. Sometimes it was the sound of a blade cutting through the air.

But these footsteps were real.

They came closer and closer, then stopped at the doorway.

Naruto stood there, carrying another paper bag in his hand.

When he saw Shuo Ye sitting at the low table eating ramen, his eyes brightened for a moment—then the light retreated, as though he were afraid that being too obvious would make things awkward.

"You ate it?" Naruto asked.

"Yeah."

"Is it good?"

"...It's cold."

"I told you cold ramen is good too." Naruto walked in and placed the other paper bag on the table. "This one's for tomorrow. Today's doesn't count—tomorrow's is the proper one."

Shuo Ye looked at the bag. Another bowl of ramen, packaged exactly the same way.

"How did you know where I live?"

"I asked Iruka-sensei." Naruto sat down beside him with his legs crossed, propping himself up with both hands behind him as he looked at the ceiling. "He said you live at number thirty-seven in the Uchiha Clan District. Took me forever to find it."

The Uchiha Clan District was huge. After the massacre, many houses stood empty, seals pasted over their doors and dust covering the hallways. Number thirty-seven was in the southeastern corner of the district, far from the main road. For a seven-year-old child to find his way here, he would have had to cross at least half the ruins.

Shuo Ye did not say thank you.

He did not say anything.

Neither did Naruto.

The two sat in the living room. Shuo Ye lowered his head and ate his ramen, while Naruto sat beside him, idly drawing circles on the floor with one finger. Sunlight slipped through the gap in the not-quite-closed curtains and fell between them.

"...Aren't you supposed to be in class?" Shuo Ye asked.

"I skipped." Naruto said it without the slightest shame. "I wouldn't understand anything they taught today anyway."

"Iruka-sensei will be angry."

"He's angry every day. He's used to it."

Shuo Ye drank the last mouthful of broth and set down the bowl.

The room was quiet. Not the glass-dome kind of quiet from before—it was the quiet of having someone beside him. The difference was enormous. The first felt like the whole world had vanished; the second felt like the world was still there, only temporarily silent.

"...I'll pay you back for the ramen later," Shuo Ye said.

"No need." Naruto waved his hand. "It's my treat. It's not like I have anywhere to spend my allowance."

"That's different."

"How is it different?"

Shuo Ye wanted to say, "Because I don't deserve to eat your food for free," but it sounded too melodramatic, so he said nothing.

Naruto stood and patted off dust that was not there from his pants.

"Then I'll come again tomorrow," he said. "And don't keep locking yourself up all the time. You'll get moldy."

He walked to the doorway and looked back at Shuo Ye.

Sunlight shone in from behind him, making his messy blond hair gleam.

"If the ramen gets cold, remember to heat it up yourself. Microwave is fine. Medium heat, two minutes."

Then he left.

His footsteps echoed through the hallway a few times before fading away.

Shuo Ye sat at the low table, an empty bowl and a pair of chopsticks before him.

Tomorrow's ramen still sat on the table. Tonkotsu flavor.

He reached out and pulled the curtains open a little.

Sunlight poured in.

He did not hide from it.