The Peddler of Secrets comes through town once every few months, and you pay her to tell her your secrets.
She's been visiting Konoha for as long as anyone can remember— parents, grandparents, great-grandparents— or at least some successor who looks and sounds close enough to pass. As far as any of the townspeople can tell, she could be aged anywhere from her early twenties to her late fifties. She has one of those faces, with skin that's clear but doesn't settle quite taut under her cheeks, lips that are thin but flushed from the wind and eyes that twinkle with youth but speak of long years past.
No one knows how old she really is, or even claims to be, or has any idea of her name, her place of origin, how long she's been in the business. Transactions are only one way: you pay, she listens. She does speak, but never secrets, not yours or your neighbor's and definitely not her own. Opinions about the weather, sometimes, and news from other towns she's passed through recently, but never secrets.
Konoha is hidden deep in a forest, so they don't get a lot of visitors, but they hear enough to know that there's a bounty out with the Peddler's name on it. She's wanted for treason— or rather, the potential for it— she knows too much, is what they're really saying, from however many years she's been travelling around with her cart full of flowers or pottery or whatever else she sells on the side for those who aren't interested in buying her silence to tell their secrets.
Most people are, though. Interested in talking to her, that is.
But as far as memory can recall, she's never betrayed anyone's confidence in all the generations she's been entrusted with information. The townspeople of Konoha judge on past experiences, not on theoretical threats, so any overcurious bounty hunters are quietly set off in the wrong direction.
It was a game until it stopped being fun, trying to get some sordid information out of her, some tiny tidbit that someone else said. But she never tells, not even back to the same person who told, just smiles at you in a way that tells you she hasn't forgotten. The little boys try to scare her, the little girls try to ply her with gifts of wildflowers and shy kisses on the cheek, but she never caves.
At night, she stays with her cart and lays out a bedroll on the ground right next to it, where she can set up a fire and see the stars. When the weather worsens, she retreats inside the cart and the townspeople take turns bringing her extra blankets, scarves, firewood, because the peddler of secrets is more than a business transaction.
When you tell her your secrets, you pay outside the cart, into a small wooden box, and you sign up for a time slot. She has open hours too, and she'll leave the door open to come right inside, and you pay as you go. It's all by time, not by individual, so sometimes a married couple or a few friends will visit her at the same time, and split the cost. If you finish early, she'll pay you back the difference.
People don't usually finish early.
When you climb the steps and close the door behind you, she asks if you would like a seat. She has a few chairs— a sturdy oak stool, a straight-backed chair with worn linen cushions, an old rocker— and some floor space. She matches you on your level. If you sit on the rug, she does too. If you choose to stand, so does she.
When you speak, she looks you straight in the eyes— or looks down at her hands, whichever makes you more comfortable— and she never has to ask, not once, not twice. She nods at all the right times, sometimes hums to answer your questions, or gives you a clear "yes" or "no," depending on which you prefer. Her eyes glimmer out at you from under her hood, sometimes green, sometimes not, depending on who you ask. It's hard to tell under the shadow of her hood, but Baker always says green, and Butcher says a blue like the morning sky. Blacksmith— when you can get an answer out of him— says brown, but not much else. Their families have been in business for a long time, and it's always the same answers from the same lines. Baker says green, Butcher says blue, Blacksmith says brown. That's all they ever say about the Peddler, though. People don't talk much about their time with her. It's hard to.
Open hours are always in twilight, and the hatch in the top of her cart remains open to the moon and the stars in good weather. Otherwise, the lanterns are switched out for candlelight that flickers silver in the eyes that peer out at you from the shadows across the tiny room.
The Peddler of Secrets has regular customers, when she stops by, and predictable schedules, if you pay attention.
On days that wild-haired Butcher brings his newest litter of puppies to the Peddler's cart, she hangs around the florist's, examining the greenery and the masterful arrangements. When Baker takes off his floury apron and buys up two time slots— he loves to talk— the Peddler can be found at the town clinic when she's off duty.
Blacksmith's name is always first on the list the days he chooses to go, and the Peddler sometimes borrows new weaponry from him, and tests them on the fields just outside the village. She comments without fail on the quality of his workmanship. It's the only time the handsome man smiles, so it's the only part of the pattern that the villagers ever notice.
The children rarely set up appointments but love to visit the Peddler during her open hours, just before the sun sets and they have to go home. Sometimes Tailor disappears into the silvery moonlight that matches his eyes and doesn't return until the gray hours of early morning.
The Peddler stays for a few days every season or so, and then for a week every few months, and then for weeks at a time, frequently— and then not at all.
Months later, in the middle of a raging snowstorm, four young women stumble into town and take up lodging wherever there's a spare room. When winter ends and town activity returns to normal, Baker introduces his pink-haired childhood friend, who soon takes up work in the clinic. Butcher's sister is a sharp-tongued girl who works closely with Baker's friend and the florist to formulate new medicinal compounds.
Tailor's cousin is a quiet girl with beautiful ebony hair and pale eyes who does fittings and embroidery. Blacksmith gains an apprentice in the form of a brown-eyed girl who sleeps outside whenever she gets the chance.
The Peddler of Secrets visits once, and again, sporadically, this time as a mouthy blonde with hazel eyes who sells tinctures and emulsions and deals in secrets on the side. She accepts liquor as payment, and takes whispers scribbled on scraps of paper, reads them and burns themselves on the bonfire at town center, laughing at the antics of the young children and the tales of the old men. If you want secrecy, you can invite her into your home and feed her a warm meal. She drinks to excess and cackles at bad jokes, but the children adore her as much as she terrifies them, and her cures save lives.
She tells them her name, her age, and where she's from. It's a different story every time, but the name is always the same— Tsunade. Don't call me the Peddler, you brat.
Years pass and the townspeople forget about the arrival of four strange women in the dead of night, forget the mysterious predecessor to this Peddler who stands out bare-headed in the heat of midday sun and can be found just about anywhere in town, provided it's the last place you plan on looking.
Sometimes you'll catch the feeling of someone listening closely to tales told in the marketplace, and the glint of green eyes across the street, or the echo of laughter in a small room, the touch of callused fingers over a sale or the flash of white teeth behind thin, chapped lips— familiar.
But you'll forget about it when the Peddler comes to town, tell her about the child you'll be having and the lies you've told and the girl you're planning to marry and the prisons you've escaped and she'll pretend like she's not interested but you know she's listening. It's part of her appeal.
You pay her to tell her your secrets when she comes through town every few months.
She is the Peddler of Secrets.