Years passed.
Not in grand leaps, but in accumulated moments: shared breakfasts interrupted by emergency summons, evenings spent on the roof watching lanterns drift into the sky, hands entwined during ceremonies that reshaped the world.
Naruto became the kind of Hokage history would praise.
Sakura became the kind of woman history struggled to define—because she was never behind him, never above him, never separate from him.
One evening, as cherry blossoms fell once more, Naruto rested his forehead against hers and smiled.
"When all of this is over," he said softly, "what do you think they'll remember?"
Sakura smiled back, fingers lacing with his. "That we chose each other. And that it was enough."