Disclaimer: No. Just, no.

oOo

These are a child's hands.

Tiny, baby pudge still lingering around the palm and knuckles, smooth and white as a butterflies wings just broken from its chrysalis. They are clumsy, unsure, and without callus or hard muscle coiled beneath. They're good enough for playing with dolls, coloring a page, and eating messily, but Sakura remembers when they could do more.

She remembers the days when her hands were long and thin, perfect for sewing a wound and replacing a heart, and so deftly. Nothing she does now is deft. Her body is relearning itself, learning how to not shake with a knife in its hand slowly, too slowly, accumulating the control it takes to color within the lines. She remembers the thin, white scar she got from a stray kunai at academy skimming her knuckles, no longer there. She remembers the bright, shiny, pink scar, stretched taut and hard, along the base of her palm when she had been careless cooking. It had only happened a year ago.

Or would happen, maybe, twelve years from now.

The feelings she experienced in her touch are different now too. They don't make her want things like they used to. She finds comfort in them, she enjoys the sensation, but the passion of teenage hormones is gone and replaced by innocent curiosity.

These are a child's hands.

This is a child's body.

And Sakura is going to go crazy here.

oOo

AN: Yes, this is a timetravel. No, I have not yet met with a psychiatrist, but thank you for your concern. They're mostly Freudian crackpots anyway.

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