Naruto : The Return of Senju

Horito stood beside his wife, Suzune, just outside the Intensive Care Unit, listening intently to the doctor. The older man's face was lined with tension, his hand resting gently on Suzune's shoulder. Her eyes were red, but she stood resolute, fingers clasped together tightly.

The doctor's expression was calm but uncertain. "Physically, there's nothing wrong with his body. From what we can tell, it seems like his system was simply overwhelmed. We stabilized him, but beyond that, we're not entirely sure what happened. All we can do now is monitor him and hope for the best."

Horito nodded slowly, absorbing the words. Relief that there were no visible injuries was tempered by the anxiety of the unknown. Suzune exhaled shakily.

After the doctor left, the couple leaned against the wall, the weight of recent events pressing down on them.

"Do you remember that night?" Suzune murmured. Her voice was soft, but it trembled with emotion.

Horito closed his eyes briefly. Of course, he remembered. It had been just a few months ago, but the pain felt fresh and raw. The night Arashi had vanished.

He had not come home after playing with the other children. At first, they assumed he had lost track of time, perhaps stayed over with one of his friends. But as the hours passed and the sky darkened, dread took hold. They scoured the village, calling his name. They checked every familiar place, asked every neighbor. Panic grew with each passing hour.

When morning came, and there was still no sign of him, fear turned into grief. It was a cruel echo of the past. Losing their daughter had been hard enough. She had been their light. And when she was gone, Arashi had become their reason to keep moving forward.

When he disappeared, it felt as though fate had struck them down again. The house had become quiet, far too quiet. Days blurred together. Horito was lost, unsure of what to do after retiring, until the clan leader asked him to become an elder—a request he was truly grateful for. Meanwhile, Suzune stepped away from her work as a medical ninja, immersing herself in teaching, trying to fill the void with anything that kept her from dwelling on her loss.

They both changed their roles within the clan, stepping back from administrative responsibilities and instead focusing on mentoring younger generations and supporting the community. It was a way to distract themselves—a way to keep moving forward while carrying the ache of their loss.

And now he was back—but fragile and silent behind the glass of the ICU.

Horito gently squeezed Suzune's hand. "He's here. That's what matters. We have him back."

Suzune nodded, though tears welled up anew. "I just… I can't lose him again, Horito."

"We won't," Horito vowed, his voice firm but gentle. "We'll get through this. Together."

They stood there in the corridor, bound by shared pain, hope, and an unyielding love for their grandson.

Five days later.

(Arashi)I slowly opened my eyes, blinking against the bright light filtering through the hospital window. My head felt heavy, and a dull ache lingered behind my eyes. Confusion settled in as I tried to make sense of my surroundings. The sterile scent, the crisp white sheets, and the faint beeping of medical equipment—it was unmistakably a hospital room.

"Why am I here?" The last clear memory I had was of being a lawyer, taking a trekking trip to clear my mind from the stress of work. I vaguely recalled the towering mountains and crisp air, but everything after that was a blur.

Before I could piece anything together, the door creaked open, and a nurse entered. She noticed my open eyes and gave a surprised yet relieved smile. "Oh! You're awake. I'll get the doctor." She left quickly, her footsteps fading down the corridor.

As I turned my head slightly, my gaze landed on a figure seated in the corner of the room. Clad in dark clothing with a mask covering his face, the individual exuded an aura of quiet vigilance. The strange attire and the concealed face reminded me of something straight out of a fantasy movie or manga. I blinked a few times, convinced I was hallucinating.

"Anbu? No, that's ridiculous. I must be dreaming... or the painkillers are strong," I murmured to myself, still disoriented.

The doctor arrived shortly after, accompanied by the nurse. He checked my vitals, asking me a few questions. "Your body is stable. You're doing well, but you need to rest. You've been through a lot."

Just as I tried to gather my thoughts, a sudden, searing pain shot through my head. I clutched my temples as my vision blurred. The intensity was overwhelming, and within moments, my consciousness slipped away.

In the darkness of my mind, images began to surface—fragmented at first, then gradually clearer. I saw myself as a child, around five years old, running through a village with other children. Faces of people I didn't recognize, yet felt strangely familiar, appeared before me. I saw a couple and an older couple who felt like family, and moments of laughter and warmth. But after the age of four, everything went black. It was as though my memories had been sealed away.

As the flood of images slowed, I realized with a mix of awe and dread that this life was not the one I remembered as a lawyer. This was something entirely different.