The Girl's Beginning and the Ripples of the Heart
The river of time flows quietly, washing the riverbed of memory and nourishing the quietly growing life. A few years may be a fleeting moment for a ninja with a long lifespan, but for a growing girl, it is enough time to complete the transformation from child to woman. Uchiha Aoi, the eight-year-old girl who found the seriously injured boy by the spring stream, trembling with fear, her hands covered in blood, has now blossomed like a flower carefully nurtured over the years, quietly blooming in the protected and confined greenhouse of the noble mansion, and has become a graceful twelve-year-old girl.
She had grown considerably taller, and her once-fitting clothes were becoming increasingly short. Now, she wore exquisitely tailored kimonos that fitted her even better. These kimonos were made of silk or crepe, often in her preferred, elegant hues—light green onion, cherry blossom, violet, and bamboo. Embroidered with subtle arabesque patterns and flowing water patterns in matching silk thread, or embellished with tiny floral patterns, they perfectly outlined her newly revealed, subtle, and slender figure. Her once slightly chubby cheeks had thinned, revealing a smooth, graceful jawline and a slender, fragile neck, adding a touch of the youthful elegance and fragility.
Her eyebrows and eyes had fully grown, becoming even more refined. Her dark eyes, large and luminous, with a slightly upturned corner, were adorned with long, dense lashes, like obsidian dipped in mercury. When still, they seemed to reflect the heart, yet when they occasionally blinked, their thoughts drifting, they would inadvertently reveal a depth of thought and elusive depth unbecoming of her age. Her long, strict, even demanding, aristocratic upbringing had ingrained etiquette into her very being, imbuing her demeanor with a natural grace and ease. Whether sitting, walking, or bowing, her posture was impeccable. When still, she resembled a delicately painted painting of a beautiful woman; when in motion, she resembled a soothing, flowing piece of elegant music.
Her beauty and grace gradually gained her a certain reputation among the capital's upper aristocratic circles. Occasionally, my grandmother would take her to informal tea parties or flower-viewing banquets. Amidst the jeweled jewels and elegant women, her quiet and striking appearance always attracted admiring, inquiring, and even skeptical glances. Some noble ladies with children of marriageable age began to inquire about my grandmother, intentionally or unintentionally. My grandmother seemed pleased with this, responding appropriately while also consciously training her in the manners and topics that would be more suitable for future marriages, especially for young women of marriageable age. These included the more complex tea ceremony process, the art of flower arrangement that better showcased family heritage, and how to skillfully and appropriately participate in the casual conversations of noble ladies.
Yet, Aoi's heart wasn't entirely resigned to the seemingly rosy fate of a noble girl, a merchandise waiting to be sold. Beneath the mask of gentle perfection that appeared to outsiders, she harbored a unique, private, and slightly taboo secret corner of her heart—a cold yet familiar, deep voice that would suddenly echo from beyond the high walls separating the mansion from the outside world.
Over the years, these brief, secret conversations through the wall had long since transcended their initial gratitude and curiosity, becoming an indispensable habit and a bright anticipation in her gray, regular life. Her feelings for the young ninja named Senju Tobirama, like drops of water dripping through the solid rock over the years, had also undergone changes in these silent exchanges that she herself had not anticipated.
At first, it was simply an instinctive curiosity about the mysterious and dangerous world of the ninja, a simple concern for the ultimate well-being of those she had personally rescued, and a tinge of surprise and affection that he would risk returning to express his gratitude and keep his promise of regular visits. Later, this feeling blossomed into a genuine admiration for his astonishingly broad knowledge and sharp intellect, a secret delight in his seemingly casual yet always perfectly tailored gifts (a rare book, a rare flower, a box of pastries), and most precious of all, a profound sense of appreciative appreciation for his ability to understand and occasionally respond to her unconventional and sometimes unconventional ideas. In this lonely world, he seemed the only one who could even partially understand her inner voice.
And now, when the girl's love quietly sprouted along with her body, this originally pure emotion seemed inevitably mixed with some more hazy, more indescribable feelings that made her flustered and yet unable to help but indulge.
She began to care whether her voice sounded clear and pleasant through the thick walls. Before she anticipated his arrival, she would secretly practice her intonation and rhythm by swaying in front of the bamboo or running water in the courtyard. She even subconsciously chose to wear jade ornaments made of a soft, mellow material that would complement the softness of her voice. She would feel a vague sense of loss and inexpressible worry when he took a while to return from a mission. Horrible images of his misfortune would creep into her mind uncontrollably, keeping her awake and unable to eat. And then, one day, when she finally heard that familiar, low, "How are you doing?" from beyond the walls, the overwhelming joy and sense of relief that washed over her would be so vivid that even she would be surprised.
She would repeatedly recall and chew over every word he had said, every single one, trying to discern the subtle shifts in emotion beneath his calm tone. Was his tone a little softer than usual? Did that brief silence indicate displeasure? Was that seemingly light, quick laugh truly amused by her words? When no one was around, she would even pull out a smooth obsidian or a scroll of inscribed bamboo slips he had left behind, staring blankly at them, her fingertips unconsciously stroking the cool surface, as if she could touch that distant, vague figure.
It was a complex feeling she had never truly experienced in her past or present lives: a sweet, sour, and slightly bitter sensation. It was like the first tender green sprouts on a branch in early spring, too fragile to withstand the elements, yet imbued with immense vitality, desperately trying to expand and grow.
However, the coldness of reality always quenched this ill-timed passion. She knew better than anyone how dangerous her quietly growing feelings were, and that they would never be supported by her family. He was a ninja, destined for a life of missions, conspiracies, and endless war. It was even possible that one day, due to a mission or a battle, he would directly cross swords with the Uchiha clan, to which she was connected by blood, and stand in a life-and-death struggle with her brother Madara.
And what about herself? Her mother's tearful plea before her death, her father's heavy, reluctant agreement, her brother Madara's resolute departure all clearly foreshadowed her fate: she must stay away from ninja, away from war, and live a peaceful (if boring) life as an ordinary noblewoman. This was the "gift" she had earned with the blood of her loved ones and her own departure, but it was also the shackles she could not escape.
The chasm of status, the opposition of positions—this was an unbridgeable, even unspoken, chasm between her and him. Every time she awoke from those hazy fantasies and realized the harsh reality, it was like a basin of ice-cold water poured down on her head, chilling her to the bone, followed by an intense sense of guilt and self-loathing. How could she develop such feelings for a ninja whose background she knew nothing about, whose past she didn't know, and who might even bring her into conflict with her family?
However, once the vines of emotion begin to entangle, reason cannot completely sever them. Every time that familiar voice echoed outside the wall, an instinctive palpitation and joy always surged into her heart before any rational analysis. She began to fall into a fierce struggle between sweetness and pain, obsession and self-blame, like being tormented between ice and fire.
She became even more careful to conceal her emotions, striving to sound calm and composed when conversing across the wall, even deliberately adopting a touch of reserve and distance befitting her status as a "noble lady," as if she were just an ordinary girl engaging in ordinary intellectual exchanges with a pen pal. However, her increasingly habitual gaze drifting toward the wall, as well as her occasional sudden distractions during etiquette classes and tea parties, still caught the attention of some observant people.
For example, her closest and most silent maid, a few years her senior, named "Aju," would occasionally cast a worried, hesitant glance at her through the reflection in the mirror while combing her long hair. Even her grandmother, with her astonishing perceptiveness, seemed to once, over afternoon tea, to survey her thoughtfully for a long time, her gaze seemingly penetrating her carefully maintained facade, perceiving the unwelcome turmoil within her heart. Ultimately, however, her grandmother asked no questions, perhaps simply attributing it to the common, insignificant whims of a young woman, perhaps a crush on a handsome young man from a noble family who had visited her mansion—a seemingly harmless aura in her eyes.
The lake in Kui's heart was rippled by the wind outside the wall, which could arrive at any time. These waves were silent, yet they spread out layers of complex and indescribable ripples in her silent and oppressive world. She knew this was wrong, dangerous, like dancing on the edge of a cliff, but she couldn't stop herself from anticipating the next echo from beyond the wall. That vague and forbidden affection, hidden deep within her heart, silently and greedily absorbed the faint nutrients brought by each brief exchange, growing tenaciously and quietly.
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