12- What is your dream?

Minato’s house was not large.

It was a one-story wooden building set in a quiet residential neighborhood, bordered by cherry trees whose branches were beginning to bud. A small veranda looked out onto an inner garden where irises and a dwarf plum tree grew.

The door opened before they even reached the steps.

Kushina stood on the threshold.

She wore an apron over a red tunic, her unbound red hair cascading over her shoulders. Traces of flour marked her cheeks, and a rebellious strand fell in front of her eyes. She smiled.

“You’re here!” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Come in, come in! I’ve prepared rice, miso, and sautéed pork.”

Obito entered first, eyes wide.

“It smells super good!”

Rin bowed politely.

“Thank you for having us, ma’am.”

Kushina placed a hand on Rin’s head, a gesture that made the little girl blush.

“No formalities. You’re Minato’s team now. It’s as if you were family.”

Kakashi entered last, silent, hands in his pockets. His gaze swept the room—the walls, the furniture, the windows, the exits. He sat at the far end of the table, as far from the others as possible, and did not touch his chopsticks.

The meal unfolded in an almost joyful agitation.

Obito was devouring his rice at a speed that left the poor bowl little chance of survival. He shoveled in a mouthful, barely chewed, swallowed, then immediately plunged his chopsticks back into the bowl. Before he had even finished his first portion, he had already held out his hand.

“More!”

Rin looked up at him, an amused smile on her lips.

“Obito, you could at least take the time to breathe.”

“I’m breathing just fine!”

He had answered with his mouth full.

Rin sighed, then calmly held out the dish to him.

“Here.”

“Thanks!”

He served himself a generous portion.

“Thanks, Rin!”

A few seconds later, he started again.

“Rin, do you think I can become as strong as Minato-sensei?”

“If you keep eating that fast, you’re mainly going to become fatter rather than stronger.”

Obito stopped short, chopsticks suspended above his bowl.

“Huh?”

Rin stifled a laugh behind her hand.

Beside them, Minato had observed the scene in silence. He ate slowly, never rushing, and his bowl was still half full.

“Minato-sensei, how did you get so strong?”

“A lot of training.”

“How much?”

“Several hours a day.”

Obito’s eyes widened.

“Several hours? Every day?”

Minato nodded.

“Almost.”

Obito remained silent for a few seconds, then grabbed another mouthful.

“Then I’m going to train twice as hard!”

Rin set down her chopsticks.

“You just said you were full.”

“I changed my mind.”

Minato let out a light laugh.

Kushina, seated across from Kakashi, tilted her head.

“You’re not eating?”

The boy looked at her. His black mask still covered the lower half of his face.

“I’m not hungry.”

Kushina narrowed her eyes.

“Come on, just a little. You’re still growing. A shinobi who eats well is a shinobi who fights well.”

“I’m not hungry,” Kakashi repeated.

Kushina looked at him for a moment, then her hair moved.

Her red hair rose—strand by strand, as if each red filament were a snake uncoiling, lifting around her head like a crown of living fire. The air around her seemed to charge with invisible electricity. Her amethyst eyes never left Kakashi’s.

And she smiled.

The softest, warmest, most terrifying smile Minato had ever seen.

“Eat.”

Kakashi went pale. He brought a hand to his mask.

Slowly, he pulled the black cloth downward.

Kakashi Hatake’s face was revealed. Fine features, a straight nose, a still-childish jaw that promised to become angular. And a mouth that, against all expectation, trembled slightly.

He took his chopsticks, served himself a portion of rice, and ate.

Kushina resumed, her hair falling back in a soft cascade over her shoulders.

“That’s better, isn’t it?”

Minato, seated beside her, watched the scene with a smile. Then, with a slow and calculated movement, he slipped his hand under the table.

His fingers closed on a cold, metallic object he had slipped into his pocket before leaving the house that morning. A camera—a compact model, with a circular lens and a silver shutter release, imported from a neighboring country and bought by the original Minato to document his missions.

He took it out discreetly, rested it on his knees, and aimed.

Click.

The shutter closed in a murmur.

Kakashi, mouth full of rice, face uncovered, cheeks slightly pink under Kushina’s gaze—frozen in the moment.

Minato watched the photo develop on the paper. The image appeared slowly, the contours sharpening, the colors settling. The face of a ten-year-old child forced to eat by a woman with hair of fire, the expression caught between fear and resignation.

A fan’s keepsake.

He hid the camera and resumed his bowl of rice, his face perfectly neutral.

The speed of the movement was such that no one noticed the action, worthy of the Yellow Flash of Konoha.

I’ve got it. I actually have the photo of Kakashi’s face without the mask. If one day I meet the fan who wrote the wildest theories about this on the forums, I’ll show him and he can die in peace.

Kushina cast him a sideways glance.

“You’re smiling to yourself. Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

Obito held out his bowl for a fifth portion.

Kushina served him without batting an eye.

Minato looked at all of them and set down his chopsticks.

The meal was drawing to a close. The bowls were empty—or nearly so, with the exception of Kakashi’s, half full, which already constituted a miracle in itself. The light of early afternoon filtered through the windows, drawing golden rectangles on the wooden floor.

He looked at the three children seated around his table.

Obito, full, slumped on his elbows, belly round as a balloon. Rin, upright and careful, who had just replaced her chopsticks on their rest. Kakashi, mask pulled back up, silent, gaze fixed on an invisible point beyond the window.

And Kushina, across from him, who was wiping the last dish while humming.

This is my family.

The idea came without warning.

He thought of the village. Of the streets of Konoha, the red roofs, the Hokage towers. Of the ramen shops where children came after the Academy. Of the residential neighborhoods where neighbors greeted each other without necessity. Of the heroes’ memorial, engraved with names he knew by heart—men and women who had truly existed, who had truly bled, who had truly disappeared.

He thought of the friends he had not yet met, of those he had crossed in the corridors, of those whose names he knew only from a databook but who, here, breathed, laughed, walked in the same dust as he did.

I’m going to protect you. All of you.

Obito let out a groan.

“I think… I’m going to explode.”

He was leaning back in his chair, both hands on his stomach, legs stretched under the table. His fifth portion of rice—or was it the sixth?—formed a visible bulge under his tunic.

Rin looked at him over her glass of water, an irrepressible smile on her lips.

“I told you so.”

“You didn’t tell me anything.”

“Yes I did. I said you risked becoming fatter rather than stronger.”

“That was a metaphor!”

“Not really.”

Obito tried to stand. His body refused cooperation. He fell back onto his backside with a dull thud.

“I’m stuck.”

Rin giggled.

Kakashi, at the other end of the table, let out a sigh; the kind of sigh that said exactly: I don’t know these people and I don’t understand why I’m being subjected to this.

Obito pointed an accusing finger at him.

“You didn’t even finish your bowl!”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“You ate half a bowl of rice! That’s nothing!”

“It’s already too much.”

Rin shook her head.

“Obito, leave him alone. At least he can stand up.”

Obito opened his mouth, closed it, searched for an argument, and found none.

“…Rin, you’re mean.”

“I’m realistic.”

The meal ended.

The three children stood up—or rather, Rin stood up, Kakashi stood up, and Obito literally rolled onto his side before managing to get to his feet.

They turned toward Kushina.

Rin bowed first.

“Thank you very much for the meal, ma’am. It was delicious.”

Obito followed, still hunched under the weight of his feast.

“Yeah! It was super good! The best rice I’ve ever eaten!”

Kushina smiled.

“You can come back whenever you want, Obito. And call me Kushina. ‘Ma’am’ makes me feel old.”

Obito nodded vigorously.

“Okay, Kushina-san!”

Rin smiled.

Kakashi, for his part, remained motionless.

The other two had gone before him. It was his turn. He knew it. His body knew it too—he had turned slightly toward the door, a movement of flight that only an attentive observer would have noticed. But his feet did not move.

He was not looking at Kushina directly. His gaze was fixed somewhere between the floor and the wall, in that blurry zone where embarrassed people place their eyes when they no longer know what to do with themselves.

“…Thank you for the meal.”

It had come out low, fast, almost inaudible. Three words swallowed like a bitter pill.

Kushina looked at him.

There was a silence.

Then she crouched down a notch so that she and the boy were at the same height.

“Kakashi.”

He did not move.

“From now on, this is your home too. You don’t need to ask to come in. You don’t need to hold back when you eat. And you’ll always find a hot meal on this table.”

“...”

His fingers, clenched in his pockets, relaxed imperceptibly.

Kushina stood up, ruffled his silver hair—a gesture he endured without pulling away—and returned to the kitchen.

Obito, who had observed the scene with suspicious intensity, puffed out his cheeks.

“And us?”

Kushina turned around, a mischievous smile on her lips.

“You three are Minato’s team. This house is as much yours as ours.”

Obito smiled—an immense, idiotic, luminous smile.

“Yes!”

Rin placed a hand on his shoulder.

“That doesn’t mean you can eat six bowls every time.”

“Five.”

“Six, just now.”

“…Five and a half.”

Kushina laughed.

Minato looked at them for a moment, then stood up.

He put away his bowl, his chopsticks, wiped the table with a methodical gesture. Then he sat down again, hands flat on the wood, and looked at all three of them.

“I have a question.”

The three turned toward him.

“What is your dream?”