Setting: Three years after Naruto and Hinata’s disappearance — Uzumaki Household, Konoha

The door creaked open to the Uzumaki residence, its silence broken only by the shuffle of Hanabi’s footsteps. She closed it gently behind her, letting the stillness fall back into place like a suffocating fog. The air felt heavy with absence, as if the house itself mourned the family that no longer lived there.

The scrolls on the wall, the framed photos in the hallway, the slippers at the door—they remained exactly as Naruto and Hinata left them. But their absence was a constant pressure, an invisible weight that pressed down on anyone who entered. Hanabi had stopped trying to correct it months ago. The lie had become too loud, too entrenched in the village’s collective memory.

She slipped off her sandals and walked into the kitchen, setting down the grocery bag with practiced grace. Cooking for Himawari had become a ritual—a tether to the past neither of them could admit they missed in the same way. The scent of fresh vegetables and soba noodles might not bring back what they’d lost, but it created the illusion of normalcy, if only for an hour.

"You're early," came a voice from the living room.

Hanabi turned to see Himawari curled into the corner of the couch, arms wrapped around her knees, her long hair tied messily back. She looked like someone caught between two ages—no longer a child, not yet a woman. The television played silently in front of her, casting blue light across her face.

"I had time after drills," Hanabi replied, unzipping her vest and setting it aside. "Thought I'd make soba tonight. It’s what your mother used to—"

"Don’t," Himawari said softly, not lifting her head. "Don’t talk about her like that. Not today."

Hanabi stood still for a moment. Her Byakugan wasn’t active, but she could still feel the emotions in the room—the tension radiating from her niece like slow-burning chakra. She recognized the signs; today marked three years since Naruto and Hinata had vanished. The village had moved on, but some wounds never truly heal.

She slipped off her sandals and walked into the kitchen, setting down the grocery bag with practiced grace. Cooking for Himawari had become a ritual—a tether to the past neither of them could admit they missed in the same way.

"Still no word from Kawaki?" she asked carefully, changing the subject as she began unpacking ingredients.

"No," Himawari answered. "He’s out on assignment. Said he didn’t want to risk bringing attention here."

Hanabi hesitated. Kawaki. The so-called real son of Naruto and Hinata. The one who remained. The one the village revered. The one who had allegedly barely survived Boruto’s betrayal.

At least, that was what they all believed.

Sometimes, when Hanabi looked at Boruto’s old picture—hidden at the bottom of Himawari’s drawer—her gut twisted with doubt. Not because she remembered anything clearly. But because some part of her heart recoiled from the idea. As if it wasn’t the truth at all.

Himawari stood slowly, her voice quieter now. “Do you really believe he did it?”

Hanabi’s hand paused as she pulled vegetables from the bag.

“What?” she asked, feigning confusion.

“Boruto,” Himawari said, finally meeting her eyes. “Do you really believe he killed them?”

Hanabi turned toward her niece. Her face remained unreadable, but inside, her resolve wavered.

“The evidence says he did,” Hanabi answered calmly. “He fled. He hasn’t tried to clear his name. If he was innocent, why wouldn’t he come back?”

“But what if he can’t?” Himawari asked, stepping forward. “What if something’s stopping him? What if the evidence is... wrong?”

There was a fire in her voice that hadn’t been there for months. Hanabi looked into those lavender eyes—so much like her sister’s—and felt her own doubt begin to surface again. She buried it quickly.

“Where’s this coming from?” she asked sharply.

“Sarada.” Himawari answered without hesitation. “She said not to believe everything we’re told. That sometimes the truth gets rewritten.”

Hanabi stiffened. She hadn’t spoken to Sarada in weeks. The girl had become distant, watching the village from behind wary eyes. She didn’t speak out loud against Kawaki or the Hokage, but her silence screamed suspicion.

Before Hanabi could respond, a sharp knock echoed through the house—controlled, precise, military in its rhythm. Both women froze. Himawari's hand hovered over her chopsticks.

Hanabi moved first, her instincts already alert. She opened the door to find an ANBU agent—unmarked mask, cloaked in standard black, bearing the Hokage’s wax-sealed scroll.

“Jōnin Hanabi Hyuga. Himawari Uzumaki.” The voice was even and devoid of emotion. “The Eight’s office requests your presence immediately.”

Hanabi’s jaw tightened. “Is this about Boruto?”

“No information can be disclosed here. You are to report at once.”

Hokage Tower – Shikamaru’s Office

The air in the Hokage’s chamber felt unusually heavy. Though Shikamaru had redecorated—opting for a cleaner, more minimal design compared to Naruto’s chaotic warmth—the weight of what had happened in the last year lingered in the very walls.

Hanabi stepped in first, alert and poised, followed closely by Himawari. Both of them slowed the moment they noticed who was already in the room.

At the center stood Shikamaru, now Hokage, arms folded, brow furrowed in thought. Beside him, leaning against the back wall with his usual unreadable expression, was Kakashi Hatake, the retired Sixth Hokage. And next to him, hands clasped politely, was Sakura Haruno, her expression carefully measured but tinged with tension.

And then there was the stranger.

A tall, cloaked figure with dark hair tied back loosely, perhaps in his late teens or early twenties. He wore a sleek dark hakama with an unmistakable symbol embroidered in crimson thread at the hem: the Uzumaki swirl.

His expression was unreadable, calm—but his eyes scanned both Hanabi and Himawari with silent intensity, as though weighing something only he could see.

“Who is he?” Hanabi demanded, her posture shifting defensively.

Shikamaru stepped forward. “I understand this is abrupt,” he said. “But what I’m about to tell you is a classified S-rank secret. It’s time both of you heard the truth.”

“Years ago, shortly after the Fourth Great Ninja War ended, Naruto discovered an orphan,” Kakashi began, his voice grave. “A boy barely ten, bearing the Uzumaki bloodline, living alone in a conflict-ridden zone north of the Land of Whirlpools. He had an uncommonly high chakra capacity—even by Uzumaki standards—and was being targeted.”

“Why didn’t we ever hear about him?” Hanabi asked sharply.

“Because it was Naruto’s request to keep him hidden,” Shikamaru answered. “He believed the boy would be safer training in secret, outside the village, under close guidance. That training fell to Sasuke.”

Hanabi’s breath caught. “That’s why he disappeared for years...”

Kakashi nodded. “Naruto trusted Sasuke to raise him independently, far from political scrutiny or danger. Even within the village, only a handful of us knew.” He gestured to the silent figure. “And now, after over a decade... he’s returned.”

Shikamaru met their eyes directly. “This is your relative.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Himawari’s eyes widened. “What...?”

Kakashi gave a firm nod. “His lineage traces directly back to the Uzumaki clan. He’s your kin.”

Sakura added gently, “And he may be the key to understanding what really happened to Naruto and Hinata.”

Hanabi felt something shift inside her—a name, a presence, a bloodline hidden away for years, now returned under impossible circumstances. And in her gut, where memory and instinct met, she realized this wasn’t a coincidence.