Disclaimer: the genius of Masashi Kishimoto is, regrettably, entirely his own.
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Sakura is walking beneath the trees.
Her ice-cream is melting, the strawberry syrup dribbling down her fingers, dripping onto the ground, and Ino teases her when she notices the stains on her dress, but that doesn't matter, because the cherry blossoms are blooming, and Konoha has never been so beautiful.
There are children playing all around her - tiny toddlers dabbling into shallow water, secure in their mothers' arms, laughing Genin tapping their forehead protectors and trying to impress their friends, but Sakura doesn't stop to watch, or to cry; the sun is shining, the wind is blowing, and she is happy. Sakura can't remember the last time that she has been happy.
It is wonderful.
Today, Sasuke's absence is meaningless, Naruto's quest is forgotten, the horror of the Chuunin exams a thousand miles away – today, Sakura is merely Sakura, and the village is at peace.
She licks her cone; smiles a friendly greeting to Kaka-sensei ("Yo!"), who sidles on, looking bored; chats animatedly with Ino as the flowers bloom and the petals paint the walkways pink.
"Come over," Ino says. "I'm making bouquets, and Okaa-san would love to see you." Sakura grins and nods, promising that she would, eating her treat. Ino shouts her good-bye, and runs away, her pretty, long blonde hair fluttering free from its butterfly clips.
Sakura waves to her retreating back.
The ice-cream is gone, the comforting sweetness vanished, but Sakura is not regretful – the flowers, raining to the grass, forbid her sorrow.
She walks, breathes in the scents of her own, perfect world, so small and untouchable, and sheds the scars that would not heal.
The day is kind, and Sakura blossoms.
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