~Unhinged~
✣Character Drabble✣
Shizune always asks what she is looking at, each time she catches the blonde staring out the window.
Tsunade is always startled—though never lets anyone see that—blinks to cover up how lost she had been, shrugs, and returns to the table, whining about more work, needing sake, or Kakashi being late. Again.
And the whole thing is forgotten for a few days until it happens again—when the cycle repeats. At times she gives a vague answer. At times just a sheepish smile. At times no response at all.
Tsunade wonders what Shizune thinks. Concern is always present in her apprentice’s eyes. Though she remains quiet. For which Tsunade is grateful.
The most meaningful discussion she has ever had with Kakashi had been when he inquired whether, when she looked at the picture outside the window, did she see a burden or possibilities? His solemn tone had made her remain quiet for a long time—knowing he wouldn’t want the answer she has to give. Instead, she gives one that will satisfy them both…yet not be an answer. She says she sees a dream.
She knows he expects her to elaborate. But she holds her silence and he chooses to respect her decision to not say more. Maybe he does understand. He is, after all, in a similar position to.
Ironically…the person who understands her need to look out is the one person she has clashed with constantly since her return to Konoha. Danzo, arriving unexpectedly, catches her by surprise, asking how often she sees the present when she looks outside? He doesn’t comment on her shock. Nor does he seem to expect an answer. That’s the only time his gaze tells her that for once, they are the same. Then he turns away and she follows. The past can wait after all.
What does it matter to Konoha that the window shows her not the present generation, but all the faces that are missing? That she sees the ones long gone, left only in her memories. That even when she sees the present, she still looks for the smiling face of her brother or a glimpse of white and black hair. She looks for all the faces she knows have not stepped into the village in decades.
The present day does not care that she is the last of a generation that sacrificed itself so that Konoha may still exist today.
And she questions whether it’s a blessing or a curse that she still remains there, to remember those who aren’t.
Outside the window, the world is a kaleidoscope of colors she once loved. The azure sky, the emerald leaves rustling in the wind, the vibrant reds and yellows—all are muted in her eyes, overshadowed by the ghosts of the past. The bustling streets are filled with laughter and life, yet all she can hear is the silence of those who have fallen.
Each day, the sunlight filters through the window, casting long shadows across her desk. She watches as the light dances, trying to find warmth in its touch, but it only serves to highlight the emptiness within her. The silhouettes of the villagers move about their daily lives, oblivious to the weight she carries, the history etched into her very soul.
Tsunade often catches herself tracing the lines of the glass with her fingertips, as if she could reach through it and touch the memories held on the other side. The window has become her silent confidant, bearing witness to her silent grief, her unspoken fears, and the relentless march of time.
She sees Nawaki’s youthful grin, always full of dreams too grand for his small frame. She sees Dan, with his kind eyes and the promise of a future that was stolen away. She sees Jiraiya, always a step behind, yet forever loyal. She sees Orochimaru, his serpentine gaze ever calculating, a reminder of the fine line between brilliance and madness. Their faces blend with the living, creating a tapestry of what was and what is, a constant reminder of the price of peace.
Every so often, a familiar face from her childhood appears in the crowd, now older, wearier. They nod to her, a silent acknowledgment of shared loss, but their eyes quickly move on, focusing on the future she struggles to embrace.
The seasons change outside, painting the village in different hues, but inside her office, it remains winter. The coldness of her reality, the stark white of her solitude, contrasts sharply with the life outside. She knows the village thrives, rebuilt from the ashes of war, but the cost is written in every invisible line of her face, every scar on her heart.
As the day fades into twilight, the sky outside her window turns a deep orange, then purple, then black. The stars emerge, one by one, distant and cold. Tsunade remains at her desk, the glow of the moon casting a pale light into the room. She sighs, the weight of the past and the burden of the present pressing heavily upon her.
In these quiet moments, when the world outside is cloaked in darkness, she allows herself to feel the full extent of her sorrow. Tears may fall, unseen and silent, but they are hers alone. For as long as she remains, so too will the memories, the ghosts, and the unending question of what might have been.
