RippleIllusion
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Summary:
She wants to see. She wants him back. In a world full of smiling mysteries she does not understand, she could only cling onto her Papa's shadow in her dreams.
A/N: I'd like to experiment with a format having one-shots combined together in this chapter.
Naruto and all of the characters belong to their own universe. I own only the tangible thoughts I create.
Enjoy.
*~Chapter 1~*
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Dreams
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Sometimes she wonders about the moon and stars and comets and how they all fit into her life.
Mama always told her that shootings star are blessings that Kami bestowed, giving a chance for dreams to finally take wings and materialize, chasing after their own destinies without a mortal mind to restrict them into only an illusion.
And Mama is always right.
So she sits on the rooftop of their house every day, a thin frame against the forceful night wind attempting to drown her, just to watch the stars fade in and out of her vision like Cheshire cats smiling at her and the moon bathing her in its silent comforting presence.
But she never did catch a shooting star.
*~*~*~*~*
On her first day attending the Academy, their sensei wanted to know their minds.
"Please write down what you wish for the most on the yellow piece of paper. As you are all training to become shinobis of your own right, each of you should have your own your dreams and hopes," Aburame-sensei explained behind his stoic expression. "This is an individual assignment; therefore, no discussion would be allowed."
She glanced at the noisy boy sitting at the row in front of her - Boruto, who scrunched up his face at the last sentence and huffed - and turned her eyes back onto the task laid out in front of her. Then she picked up the pencil and rested its point on the top, making the smallest smudge on the pristine, white paper.
But the pencil point didn't move any further.
She stared at the blank page.
The page stared back at her.
The sound of others' pencils scratching on paper was disorienting at least and she couldn't concentrate. How could she form her wish into one coherent idea when she could barely understand it herself?
Finally, in the last 20 seconds before time is up, her wobbly pencil etched out her thoughts, and her own uncertain response wriggled before her eyes, threatening to break out of her grasp.
She could have sworn that when Aburame-sensei collected and glanced over her paper, the corners of her mouth turned up the tiniest bit and he imperceptibly nodded.
She decided that she liked him after all.
*~*~*~*~*
Mama was always tired when she came home from the hospital, but she always put on the sweetest smile for her.
She would always yield to her daughter's request of having a plate of tomatoes cooked with eggs for dinner. That is the child's favorite dish.
Mama never questioned why.
Sometimes she wonders why Mama would buy bags upon bags of tomatoes every week, when they cannot finish them even with her love for the fruit.
But she never asked why.
*~*~*~*~*
They call her Salad.
Salad, they said, would fit the tradition of her maternal side of family being named after plants.
Salad, they commented, had the sound of the beginning syllable of her parents' names.
Salad, they also teased, was made better eating with tomatoes.
But can't they see that she is missing this very component?
