The river flowed silently through the valley, its glassy surface disturbed only by the occasional gust of wind or falling leaf. The tall reeds lining the water's edge swayed rhythmically, whispering secrets carried from one end of the forest to the other. Sunlight filtered through the canopy overhead in golden shafts, casting long shadows as the day began to wane.
Hashirama Senju stood beneath one of the older trees near the riverbank, arms crossed loosely over his chest. His armor, though unblemished by blood or ash today, bore the wear of constant use. His eyes—deep and thoughtful—scanned the far side of the river where two stones jutted out, half-submerged in the water. He remembered leaping from those stones as a boy, water splashing beneath his feet, laughter echoing through the trees.
That laughter had once belonged to two boys.
He closed his eyes.
He heard it again, that familiar sound—laughter untainted by war or death. A laugh that once made him feel like the future could be theirs, shaped not by the steel of kunai but by their own hands. Back then, Madara was his equal not only in power but in dream.
A faint ripple on the surface of the river drew his gaze.
Madara Uchiha stood on the opposite bank.
He hadn't made a sound approaching—of course not. Not with feet as silent as smoke and a presence honed by years of deadly instinct. His long, dark hair swayed slightly in the breeze, and his crimson armor gleamed under the filtered sunlight. The Sharingan in his eyes burned with quiet intensity.
There was no greeting, no formal acknowledgement.
They simply stared across the river at one another.
The world seemed to pause.
Finally, Hashirama broke the silence.
"You came."
Madara's expression didn't change. "You left the message in the open. You wanted me to find it."
"I knew you'd come if you read it," Hashirama replied softly. "If you still remembered."
Madara tilted his head slightly. "You mean if I still cared."
There was a pause before Hashirama nodded. "Yes."
Madara stepped forward, the soft crunch of gravel beneath his sandals the only sound that followed.
"You wanted a meeting here," he said, his tone unreadable. "Of all places. Why?"
Hashirama glanced toward the stones in the river. "Because this is where we used to dream."
A ghost of a smile passed over Madara's face—more a twitch than anything else. "Dreams are for children."
"We were children once," Hashirama said. "But we weren't wrong to dream."
Madara walked closer, until only the river separated them by a few meters.
"You think I don't remember?" he asked. "This place, this river, these trees? I remember everything, Hashirama. I remember the stones we marked with our names. I remember the oaths we made. I remember when we believed we could change the world."
Hashirama looked down. "We still can."
Madara's Sharingan narrowed. "And at what cost? How many Senju and Uchiha corpses do you have to climb over before you realize this world doesn't want peace?"
"I don't accept that," Hashirama said, his voice firm. "If we—"
"You don't accept it because you're still clinging to the past."
"I'm clinging to what could be," Hashirama snapped.
The heat in his words echoed louder than he intended, but Madara didn't flinch. Instead, he stepped onto the water, standing perfectly balanced as he crossed the river on calm ripples, chakra keeping him afloat.
Hashirama mirrored him, and the two slowly walked to the center—each step deliberate, each movement measured. They met in the middle, just above the river's flowing current, standing face to face.
For a moment, they simply looked at each other—brotherhood strained but never fully severed.
Madara spoke first. "You called me here. Speak."
Hashirama inhaled deeply. "We need to stop. The bloodshed, the skirmishes, the traps, the raids. You and I both know the cycle won't break unless we break it ourselves."
Madara tilted his head, his eyes searching. "And what would you propose?"
"A ceasefire," Hashirama said. "A formal, binding agreement. No ambushes. No strikes. Just… silence. For a time. Let both sides breathe."
Madara was silent. His gaze drifted downward toward the river beneath them, then up to the sky above. A bird flew overhead, casting a flickering shadow between them.
"And then what?" he finally asked. "You think silence will erase generations of hatred?"
"No," Hashirama said. "But it's a start. A chance to open talks. To create a place where our clans—and others—can live without fearing the next blade in the dark."
Madara's brow furrowed slightly. "You're talking about that village idea again."
Hashirama nodded. "Yes. A place for our children. A home, not a battlefield."
Madara turned away, his voice low. "I've heard enough dreams today."
Hashirama reached out, hand hovering just inches from Madara's shoulder. "Don't walk away. Please. We stood here before as friends. As brothers in spirit. That hasn't changed."
Madara's body tensed. "You're wrong. Everything has changed."
He turned back around, his Sharingan blazing, not in rage but intensity.
"You haven't seen what I've seen," he said. "You don't know how deeply hatred runs. Every time we show mercy, we are stabbed in the back. Every time we pull back, they push harder. You still have faith. I only have scars."
"You still spared me once," Hashirama said.
"So did you."
Their eyes locked again. An electric charge crackled in the air, but there was no killing intent. Not yet.
"I want to believe," Madara murmured. "I want to believe you can make this work. That we don't have to lose anyone else."
"Then believe."
Madara exhaled. "Belief alone won't be enough."
"I know," Hashirama said. "That's why I'm asking you to walk this path with me again."
Silence hung between them. Then, Madara's expression softened—just slightly.
"Hashirama…"
"Yes?"
"If I ever see you betray your ideals for power, even once—I will destroy everything you build."
Hashirama's expression turned solemn. "Then I'll never give you that reason."
Madara took a step back, his form beginning to fade into a misty shimmer. "We'll see."
And with that, he vanished into the trees beyond the riverbank, his chakra signature dispersing with the wind.
Hashirama stood there a while longer, alone on the water, the current flowing beneath his feet like time itself—always moving, always forward.
He closed his eyes and whispered, "One step closer."