Snow blanketed the Hidden Leaf Village in a hushed white silence, the kind that muffled all sound and made the world feel paused in breath. The streets lay empty in the early morning light, frost clinging to windowpanes and rooftops. The sun was not yet strong enough to melt the ice, casting everything in a faint, cold blue.
From one of the more neglected corners of the village, a rusted door creaked open. A small boy stepped out, his breath immediately forming clouds in the chilled air. His jacket was too thin, sleeves frayed and patches stitched in mismatched patterns. His shorts—despite the winter—barely covered his knees, already reddened by the cold.
Naruto Uzumaki pulled the fabric of his jacket tighter around him and looked up at the cloudy sky. His eyes were dull but not without life. There was a quiet purpose in his expression. He didn't make noise. He never did, not anymore.
With small, almost silent steps, he began to walk. Past shuttered homes and icy lantern posts, past villagers who glanced at him only to quickly avert their eyes. The ones who didn't ignore him whispered, some with annoyance, others with contempt.
"Still here, that thing…" murmured one man leaning against a fence.
Naruto didn't stop or react. He kept walking, gaze lowered to his feet. He'd learned long ago that reacting only made things worse. Silence was safer.
He made his way to the village library.
The building stood tall and warm in the morning light. Golden lamps glowed behind thick windows, and the scent of aged paper and polished wood seemed to escape even into the frozen air. He hesitated at the door, then reached for the handle and pulled it open.
Inside, the warmth was immediate and inviting. Shelves upon shelves of scrolls and books lined the walls. The light was soft, catching motes of dust that danced lazily in the air. He stepped in quietly, brushing snow from his sandals.
This place had once been a sanctuary. The old librarian, a gray-haired woman named Miss Inoue, had let him in through a side door and always smiled at him. She never asked questions or treated him differently. But Miss Inoue had retired two weeks ago.
Naruto hadn't been here since.
Today, he wanted to try.
He made his way past the entrance with hesitant steps, eyes already scanning the shelves longingly.
From behind the counter, a new voice barked.
"Eh? What are you doing here?"
Naruto flinched and turned.
The new librarian was a tall, broad man with thin glasses and a scowl permanently etched into his face. He stood up from his chair, eyeing Naruto with open disdain.
"Look around, kid—this place is for people who actually know how to read. You lost, or just cold?"
Naruto blinked. He didn't understand the sarcasm. The man sounded angry, but his words… they weren't telling him to leave. Not directly. So Naruto bowed his head slightly.
"hai" he said softly, and turned to head for the shelves.
He took three steps.
The man was suddenly in front of him.
A rough hand seized Naruto by the back of his collar and yanked him backward, lifting his feet off the floor. He gasped in surprise and fear.
"Did you not hear me, brat?" the man hissed. Then, without ceremony, he threw Naruto out the door.
Naruto hit the stone walkway outside with a dull thud, skidding slightly on the ice. His palms scraped along the ground, stinging instantly.
Inside the library, several heads turned. A few patrons laughed.
"About time someone did that," someone muttered.
Only one person didn't laugh.
From a seat near the window, Hinata Hyuga watched the entire scene unfold. Her scroll was open in front of her, but her pale eyes were focused on the door, now closed again. Her lips were a thin line, her posture still perfect, but her hands had curled tightly into fists on her lap.
She said nothing. But she didn't turn the page of her scroll again.
Outside, Naruto slowly sat up. He didn't cry. He didn't scream. He only brushed snow from his scraped hands, stood, bowed slightly toward the door, and began to walk away.
Hinata remained frozen in her seat.
The hush of the library returned quickly, broken only by the occasional turn of a page or murmur of a voice, but in Hinata's ears, that silence rang louder than any shout. She stared at the door, where a boy—small, quiet, and polite—had just been thrown like refuse.
Her fingers trembled slightly beneath her long sleeves.
She had seen Naruto before. Everyone had. The boy who wore hand-me-downs and lived alone. The boy people looked at with scorn, or not at all. Her father had told her never to speak to him. Her tutors had changed the subject whenever she asked why.
She remembered him once offering her a crumpled flower on the training grounds, years ago. He hadn't said a word, just held it out with a shy smile. She'd turned away without a response, unsure of what to do, and afraid of what her cousin Neji would say.
Now she watched as that same boy picked himself up from the snow, brushing off the ice and dirt, and stood as though nothing had happened.
Why didn't he yell?
Why didn't anyone stop him from being thrown?
Her eyes shifted back to the librarian, who had returned to his seat without a care. People whispered and laughed, their voices carrying the casual cruelty she'd learned to tune out in the Hyuga compound.
But this time she couldn't tune it out.
She closed her scroll quietly and stood. No one noticed. Even if they had, they wouldn't have stopped her. She was the perfect Hyuga heiress—silent, composed, invisible when needed.
But in that moment, she felt anything but.
Outside, Naruto had only made it a few steps before the sting in his hands grew too strong to ignore. He sat on a frozen bench near the entrance, breathing on his palms to warm them.
It wasn't the pain that bothered him. Not really.
It was the cold.
It always crept in slowly—through fabric, through skin, until it sat heavy in his bones. Like the silence in his apartment. Like the looks people gave him when they thought he wasn't watching.
His breath hitched, but he caught it before it became a sob. He glanced at the sky instead. It was still the pale grey of early morning. Clouds stretched thin, not yet ready to snow again.
He wondered if the kind librarian missed the library.
He wondered if she missed him.
He blinked slowly, lips parting in a quiet sigh, when he heard the soft click of a door opening behind him.
Footsteps. Light ones.
He turned his head slightly.
Hinata stood there, still framed in the warmth of the doorway, her eyes fixed on him. She didn't speak.
Neither did he.
For a second, the world felt paused again. Like the snow had frozen time.
Then Hinata looked down, her cheeks pale but her eyes unreadable. Without saying a word, she turned and walked away into the library once more.
Naruto watched her go. He didn't understand what the look in her eyes had meant.
But somehow, it felt like the cold had lessened.
Just a little.
==================================================================
The journey back to Naruto's apartment was quieter than usual. Even the villagers seemed to have gone still in the deeper cold. The snow had begun again, soft flakes that stuck to his blond hair and bare legs. He didn't brush them off.
His apartment building sat at the edge of a long-forgotten road, shadowed by a half-collapsed wall that once marked the border of the district. It was more rust than brick now, the doors crooked, the windows fogged by age and damp.
Naruto climbed the stairs slowly. His hands still stung, and one knee had started to bruise.
Inside, the apartment was just as he had left it. Cold. Quiet. A cracked radiator rattled weakly in the corner but offered no real heat. He kicked off his sandals and walked across the tatami, leaving faint wet footprints behind.
He sat in the middle of the room. There was no table, just a threadbare futon in the corner, a chipped bowl in the kitchen, and a faded towel hanging on a rusted nail.
Naruto reached into his pocket and pulled out the small slip of paper he'd tucked there earlier—a list of books he wanted to read. He had spent the whole week copying the titles carefully from the academy blackboard when no one was looking.
He unfolded it slowly.
Then just stared.
It was silly. A waste of paper. He couldn't get the books. Not now. Not ever, maybe.
But he didn't tear it.
Instead, he lay down on the floor, pulling his thin blanket over himself, still wearing his jacket and shorts. The snow continued to fall outside, tapping against the glass.
He closed his eyes.
And whispered to the silence, "I'll try again tomorrow."