The morning light poured through the orphanage windows, its warmth brushing against my face and forcing me awake. My body felt sluggish, not with exhaustion but with the unfamiliarity of existing in a new form.
The soft breathing of children surrounded me, a reminder that I wasn't alone in my room but in an orphanage.
Small cots were lined up in neat rows, each occupied by a slumbering child, their chests rising and falling in peaceful rhythm. Some mumbled in their sleep, others curled deeper into thin blankets, shielding themselves from the morning chill.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I hesitated before stepping onto the cool wooden floor.
My steps were light, almost too light, like my weight had been halved overnight. With a deep breath, I approached the mirror, my fingers gripping the edges of the desk as I peered into the glass.
And there he was.
I couldn't get a good look at myself the night before due to the darkness, but now…
A boy, no older than four, gazed back at me with a pair of dark and deep eyes. I lifted a hand, and the reflection mirrored the motion, small fingers twitching slightly.
My hair was black, fine, and slightly messy, strands falling over my forehead in uneven waves. It looked soft to the touch, yet untamed, as if no one had bothered to comb it properly in a while.
My face was round, still carrying baby fat, but my eyes… my eyes didn't belong to a child. They belonged to someone who had seen and understood too much too soon.
"Fuck. Now I have to act like a child." I muttered silently despite myself so as not to startle the other kids.
I turned my head from side to side, taking in the soft curve of my cheeks, the slightly pointed chin, the faint shadow of my nose in the morning light, my small, thin lips pressing together as if instinctively holding back words that wanted to be spoken.
I took a step back, then another, watching how the boy in the mirror mimicked me.
My limbs were thin, not frail but lacking the muscle that would come with years of training. My fingers curled slightly, and I flexed them, feeling how small and delicate they were.
Would they one day hold a kunai with confidence? Would they one day weave seals as effortlessly as a master? Would they one day…reap lives that'll tear families asunder?
Thoughts for the future me.
The oversized shirt I wore sagged over my frame, the sleeves slipping past my wrists. It was an old hand-me-down, probably from another orphan before me. My shorts were slightly loose, hanging around my waist, tied with a knot to keep them from slipping. Even my shoes, worn and slightly scuffed, seemed to swallow my feet.
I exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down my face.
This was me now.
Haruki Murakami.
A four-year-old boy in a world where survival meant strength, cunning, and preparation. A world where my body was small, weak, and utterly powerless…for now.
But I had time.
And time was all I needed.
Just then, a soft creak sounded as a soft voice rang out. "Rise and shine kids."
I recognise that voice. Asami Hoshino-san. The matron of this orphanage.
"Oh? Mura-chan, you're already awake?" The Matron, Hoshino, exclaimed in surprise seeing the new kid already awake and about while the other kids still groggily moaned as they either awoke or pretended to still be sleeping.
I nodded at her question but didn't reply. From my memories, I know that I was only admitted here the day before. This means that I had the perfect blank slate and could begin moulding my character.
This experience called life was a beautiful thing and I know for a fact that if I meet a thousand new people today, the impression I leave on them will be interpreted in a thousand different ways.
"That's good, Mura-chan, why don't you help me wake up your brothers and sisters. We have a long day ahead of us." Hoshino asked with a smile to which I nodded.
I was already the grieving kid and I intend to keep up that status till I get a full grasp on my situation.
…
Hoshino-san is a middle-aged woman with a sturdy frame with a presence that exuded both authority and warmth.
Her dark brown hair was neatly tied into a low bun which revealed her sharp, watchful eyes that missed nothing. Fine lines mark her tanned skin, a testament to years of hard work and patience in raising countless orphans.
She wore a simple, well-maintained kimono in earthy tones, favoring practicality over extravagance. Her calloused hands, rough from years of tending to the orphanage, were surprisingly gentle when comforting a crying child or bandaging a scraped knee.
Despite her strict demeanor, there's an undeniable kindness in the way she speaks, her firm but fair approach ensuring that every child under her care feels safe.
To the troublemakers, she was an immovable force; to the lonely, a quiet source of solace. Though not a shinobi, she carried herself like one, shaped by a lifetime of enduring hardship and dedicating herself to the well-being of Konoha's forgotten children.
I sat on the edge of my bed as I profiled Hoshino after a full week spent observing her. It wasn't that I wanted to do so, but she insisted I tagged along since I was new and still grieving due to my reclusive nature.
Staring at the wooden walls of the orphanage, I came to an understanding. This place will be my home for as long as possible, and from Hoshino's introduction, he had a grasp on its geographical situation.
The orphanage was a building, tucked away at the village's edge, where children like me were gathered and kept out of sight. Not in a cruel way—just… distant. Like we didn't quite fit into the rest of Konoha.
The orphanage wasn't inside the main village, not where the shinobi trained or where the clan kids lived. It was farther out, near the tall trees that lined the outskirts, close enough to see the village walls but far enough that no one came here unless they had to.
A stream ran nearby, winding through the woods, shallow but clear. The matron said it was good for washing clothes and fetching water, but we weren't allowed to play near it.
Too dangerous, she said.
The building itself was old. Wooden beams creaked when the wind pushed against them, and the floors groaned under too many feet. The main hall was where we ate, long tables, always a little too crowded, always just enough food to keep us full but never enough to make us feel satisfied.
I was bothered at the lack of care we received despite Hashirama still being alive, but then I recalled that during this period, he was probably already in his weak years.
He couldn't always be involved in the happenings of the Village. Not to mention, the village was still new.
The sleeping quarters were split up by age. The younger kids slept together in a big hall with rows of futons, while the older ones got smaller rooms, two or three to a space.
Privacy was a joke.
But hey, I'm a kid, so what use is privacy…is what you thought I'd say right?
Nope.
As a mentally older kid, the thought of my every action being privy to other kids…Gah.
Outside, there was a small yard, fenced off but barely used. No one really cared if we ran around there, but most of us didn't. The ground was too dry, the grass patchy. No real reason to be out there unless you wanted to be alone. And in a place like this, being alone wasn't always a good thing.
Beyond the orphanage, Konoha stretched out in layers—markets and shops where the villagers bustled around, the shinobi district where the real warriors lived, and at the center, the Hokage's office standing beneath the massive stone face carved into the mountainside.
I had only ever seen one face up there, Hashirama Senju, the First Hokage. They said another would be added soon, but I didn't care much about that. The Hokage didn't visit places like this.
This was a place for those left behind. A place where names didn't matter unless you made them matter. And in Konoha, making your name mean something was the only way to be seen.
"Mura-chan. Mura-chan." I was pulled out of my thoughts and turned my gaze to the culprit.
"What is it, Hina?" I asked coldy but the girl didn't seem to register the coldness and just giggled and covered her mouth.
"You're so cute when you're like that." The girl, Hina, a fellow orphan considering the settings said, much to my annoyance.
I was many things in my past life, but cute was never one of them.
As a dark skinned guy, I was so beautifully black that even the term handsome couldn't be used to describe me…Yeah, that's my narcissistic side talking, but it's the truth.
So, one can imagine my annoyance when I'm suddenly in the body of a white skinned Asian kid and being called cute on top.
"If you call me cute one more time, I'll make sure to ask the Ghost of the Uchiha clan to visit you." I said and immediately, Hina went pale and froze.
Yup. Madara is the current boogeyman of the Shinobi world following his defection and 'death' at the hands of Hashirama.
It was funny seeing the kids tremble in fear whenever his name was brought up.
Don't want to eat vegetables? Madara will come for you.
Don't want to sleep early? Madara…
Don't want to wake up? Madara…
Don't want to take your bath? Madara…
Hoshino-san was so good at using Madara's name that it became akin to the devil himself from Earth and I couldn't help pitying the man.
No sane Otaku didn't love that man, but that was when he was a character in the series. Now that he's a future threat…
Shivers…
Guess I've also contacted the Ghost-phobia.
"Mura-chan is not cute at all." Hina, having recovered from her initial horror, immediately burst into tears and ran out of their shared hall, much to my delight.
It was currently the weekend and the kids were out and about. Hoshino went to the market with some older kids to procure the necessities for the orphanage and I finally have time to myself.
It's finally time I explored this tingly sensation I've always felt in my body.