Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.

Status: Incomplete.

Their first child had been blonde.

Yasuo had taken after his mother and he sported a head full of silvery blonde locks that fell around his face in cherubic curls that had all of the village mothers squealing in delight. His father, Ensui, had laughed at that—a gift from his mother's side of the family—and Chiharu had nodded, her lips quirking in a smile as she mocked, one of the last. Yasuo's eyes were his father's; dark brown and depthless; but he held his mother's delicate features, and several grandmothers chortled when they thought of just what a pretty boy he would make.

Yasuo was a difficult child, for lack of a better way to put it. He screamed and cried, and, while he was still breastfeeding, he often bit Chiharu's nipples when she wasn't paying attention to him. He gurgled happily whenever he was the center of attention, and his face would grow thunderous in its anger when he wasn't. A greedy little boy, one consumed by the need to be validated and acknowledged, the women of the village often reprimanded fondly.

Their third child had taken after Ensui; dark, olive skin, muddy brown hair and endless brown eyes, splotches of freckles sprinkling across the bridge of her nose and interconnecting over her shoulders. She was a placid, if serious child, and a sturdy little girl. She had a thick waist and solid, stern eyes that remained unwavering for the length of her life. She never complained too much, yet never too little either; Hatsue was a severe, curious little girl with a penchant for bossing people around a little too often, a fact, that brought a reminiscent smile to her father's face and a long-suffering one from her mother.

It was their second child, the middle child that was…born different. Chiharu loved all of her children equally and without prejudice, as did Ensui but neither of them could deny the…bizarreness of their middle child.

She had been born on a thundering night, when the storm raged over their heads and blew the winds so fiercely that even the rooftops seemed to rattle, and she came into their world a little too small, her eyes shifting restlessly. She had not made a single sound when she came into the world, but her eyes were wide open and gaping, and Ensui would forever remain sure that his first daughter was sporting a look of complete and utter surprise. And then, when Chiharu had uttered her new name, Hitomi, before collapsing in an exhausted heap, the midwife wiping her brow, the newest addition to their family had erupted into screaming, sobbing cries that echoed in their little home.

Hitomi looked like Ensui in the way that her skin was tan; not as dark as Hatsue's dark earthen brown, but still a dark, honey brown that complemented the dark hair her father had passed onto her as well. She looked like Chiharu in the way that she was delicate; her features were dainty, and made of glass, and she looked like she would break if anyone looked at her a little too long. Unlike Yasuo—who had retained their Haha-ue's prettiness and stunning features—she wasn't quite delicate enough to look pretty; her cheekbones were just the slightest bit too sharp, her mouth a little too striking, her eyes too hazy and clouded to look beautiful.

It was her eyes, however—her clouded, dreaming gaze—that she took from Ensui. They were almond in shape, and large, taking over most of her face. The color was her mother's; dark as slate in the blackness of the night, as luminous as thunderstorms in the high sun—an opaque gray that shifted in the early morning light and turned tumultuous in the long nights.

While Hatsue was a sure-fasted, curious child with a stern personality and Yasuo was a superfluous, vain child…Hitomi was…different.

Their middle child never cried. She never made any sound or squeak, even when Chiharu accidentally dropped her one day, after her work in the fields. Her mouth worked silent syllables, and she mouthed strange words that seemed to be gibberish mumbling, just under her breath, unable to be heard. It was a surprise, when, one day Hitomi gave an enormous, gurgling laugh as Yasuo fell straight on his face, dead asleep after a long day of playing, straight into his rice bowl.

After that, things smoothened out—Chiharu was no longer rushing to the midwives and doctors for every little abnormality, and the stress that had accumulated on Ensui's shoulders fell with a silent whoosh—but she still remained different; unique from every other experience they had with their other two children.

She learned to walk much quicker than their other children, toddling around at seven months, and learned to speak even sooner. Her words held a clip of unidentifiable accent, one that made the skin of Ensui's brow crease, and Chiharu's lips curve downwards, and no matter how much practice in enunciation, Hitomi forever held that little dip of strangeness when she spoke. There was a sense of quiet gentleness about her that Chiharu had only ever seen in elders; a sort of slow, lazy knowing gleam that made Ensui sit up and take note, his eyes glittering in that particular way.

There were things that Chiharu didn't understand about her daughter. How she marveled over the use of chopsticks and cried over the crops, fat tears dripping down her cheeks when she saw a potato. How Hitomi always looked like she was half-lost in her head and never raised her voice above a well-mannered shout. How she sometimes mumbled to herself, dark eyebrows lurching together violently, in words Chiharu couldn't even begin to discern. How she seemed to stumble over the syllables of Haha-ue and Chichi-ue, her mouth wobbling as she spoke.

Time passed, and yet Hitomi's eccentricities didn't go away. She would stop sometimes, in the middle of the day—the middle of the harvest, and fall asleep underneath the swaying trees, her hair caught around her shoulders, eternally tangled. She sang folk songs that were high and eerie, unlike the ones the rest of her siblings had learnt in the tiny village. Her clothes were always hiked up around her knees and shoulders, and Hitomi rarely cared that she tanned; her skin turning as brown as Hatsue's, freckles dusting her arms, and kissing her shoulders. She tucked every kind of flower she could find behind her ears and weaved them into her hair so tightly they'd dry there and splinter until there wasn't even a stem.

Chiharu drew the line when she began to let a bird nest their eggs in her hair.

She grew into a wild, untamed girl with a penchant for rambling and singing to the morning sun. Hitomi chirped hello to the birds and bowed to the trees, head low in respect. She hated shoes, and after years of her coming home barefoot and splattered in mud, Chiharu finally gave up her crusade for civility. She was clumsy, and shuffled and tripped as easily as she breathed, most often giving Ensui terrible frights as she walked around with her head half in the clouds, barely realizing she was in the way of a farmer's cart.

And finally, there were things, Chiharu came to accept, that she would never understand about her daughter.

To anyone who wishes to read this: Enjoy.