Recovery progressed faster than expected, my body mending with the resilience that had carried me through countless battles. But physical healing was the easy part—the wounds to my spirit seemed to resist treatment, reopening every time I thought they might finally close. Yuki's continued kindness only made it worse, each gentle gesture adding weight to the secret I carried.
A week after she'd learned my identity, I felt strong enough to leave the clinic and help around the village. Yuki had suggested it might be good for my recovery to get fresh air and light exercise, but I suspected she had deeper motives. She wanted me to see the life her community had built, to understand what normalcy looked like when people chose cooperation over conflict.
"Come with me," she said on a bright morning when spring seemed particularly determined to assert itself. "There's someone I want you to meet."
She led me through the village's winding streets to a small house near the harbor, where an elderly woman sat on her porch mending fishing nets. The woman looked up as we approached, her weathered face creasing into a smile that transformed her appearance entirely.
"Yuki, dear," she said warmly. "And this must be your patient. I'm Grandmother Sato, though everyone just calls me Grandmother."
"Sasuke," I said, offering a slight bow.
"Sit, sit," she insisted, gesturing to a wooden bench beside her chair. "These old bones could use the company while I work."
As we settled onto the bench, Grandmother Sato continued her repair work with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd been mending nets longer than I'd been alive. Her hands moved in smooth, rhythmic patterns, finding holes and weaving them closed with an almost meditative focus.
"Grandmother has lived here longer than anyone," Yuki explained. "She's seen the village through wars, famines, and rebuilding periods. She has the best stories."
"Stories are what keep us connected to who we are," Grandmother Sato said, not looking up from her work. "They remind us where we came from and help us decide where we're going."
"Tell him about the bridge," Yuki suggested.
"Ah, the bridge," Grandmother Sato's eyes lit up with memory. "That was before your time, dear, but what a story it is. We used to be completely isolated here, cut off from the mainland except by boat. Trade was difficult, travel dangerous, and many young people left because they couldn't see a future in such a remote place."
She paused in her mending to look out toward the harbor, where the impressive span of Tazuna's bridge connected the Land of Waves to the wider world. "Then came the bridge builder—Tazuna was his name—with this crazy dream of connecting us to the mainland. Most people thought he was foolish, trying to attempt something so ambitious with so few resources."
"But he succeeded," I said, remembering our old mission.
"Not alone," Grandmother Sato said with a knowing smile. "He had help from some very special young people. Ninja from Konoha who believed in his dream strongly enough to risk their lives defending it."
The memory of that mission came flooding back—our first real test as a team, the place where we'd learned about bonds and sacrifice. It felt like a lifetime ago, back when the world seemed simpler and heroism was a matter of clear choices between right and wrong.
"Yuki tells me you're a ninja yourself," Grandmother Sato continued, her tone carefully neutral.
"I was," I said carefully. "I'm trying to be something different now."
"Hmm." She resumed her mending, but I could feel her studying me from the corner of her eye. "And what sort of something different?"
It was a fair question, and one I didn't have a complete answer for. "Someone who helps instead of hurts," I said finally. "Someone who builds bridges instead of burning them."
"That's a worthy goal," she said approvingly. "Though I imagine it's not an easy transition to make."
"No," I admitted. "It's not."
"Most worthwhile changes aren't easy," Grandmother Sato observed. "When Tazuna first proposed the bridge, half the village thought he was mad. The other half thought he was a dreamer whose ideas would get people killed. But he kept working, day after day, convincing one person at a time that his vision was worth pursuing."
She held up a section of net she'd been repairing, examining her work in the morning light. "Mending is like that too. You can't fix everything at once—you have to find each hole individually and weave it closed, one stitch at a time. Rush the job, and the whole thing falls apart."
I understood the metaphor. Redemption couldn't be achieved through grand gestures or dramatic moments of revelation. It required daily choices, small acts of kindness, gradual rebuilding of trust and purpose. Like mending a net, it was detailed work that demanded patience and persistence.
"Grandmother," Yuki said quietly, "would you tell Sasuke about the memorial?"
The old woman's expression grew somber. "Ah, yes. The memorial."