Welcome to my first published story on FanFiction. Enjoy reading and I thank you greatly for your time. Reviews appreciated.

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN NARUTO. THOSE RIGHTS BELONG TO MASASHI KISHIMOTO.

The old man stood in his little old cottage, his hands tucked away in his pants pockets, gazing out of the picture framed window as his thoughts wondered from past to present. One in particular crossed his vision. It was of a young girl with bright sea green eyes and an unusual shade of pastel pink hair. He remembered running his hands though that hair, soft and free, letting each delicate strand fall through his fingers. Her soft tender lips, how he missed them, especially when she used them to form the smile meant just for him. That memory still brought a deep feeling of longing inside of him even from such an old one. He began to focus on the reflection of himself in the window, letting it mingle with the girls' memory, and allowed the criticism to come.

Life had not been kind to this one as time had chiseled away at his features. His once silky raven black hair had thinned, greyed, and no longer held shape to rise behind his head. He had trimmed it so that little white strands fell just above his eyes that still had their onyx hue. Gone was the youthful spirit of his face as it was replaced by a more sallow wrinkled one with few key handsome features to mark, yet still carried that sense of the boy the girl had fallen in love with.

He leaned in towards her, letting his eyes close slowly, till his head was touching the window pane allowing that warm feeling rush through his essence as he imagined her lips touching him again He let slip a faint smile as he heard her say, "You aged like spoiled milk Sasuke." She gave a small giggle and then his insides were struck with sudden warmth so powerful and full of great joy that it resembled the way he felt when she would let her lips lay on his forehead, embracing him in a hug unwilling to release him. He didn't blame her for that. After all he was the cause of her sorrow. Yet, this time, instead of pushing away he welcomed such feelings.

"I miss you so much," he spoke as a tear rolled down his cheek. He had begun to cry. The tears picked up and started to stream down his wizened old face, curving with the wrinkles, and ending their journey with a pit-pat on the window sill. His hard-worked calloused hands, now free from his pockets, bore into the side of the window turning his knuckles white. The man had not cried so hard before as he did so now for he was one to wall up the feelings and hide them within a mask of normalcy, establishing himself as cool-headed and careless. Though, as time went on, the mask cracked and fell apart leaving him open and wounded to the world.

Her faint voice reentered his head, as she spoke he felt a soft warm touch as though her hand had tried to brush the tears from his now saturated face. "Remember what I told you all those years ago?"

"Y-yes," he stuttered, as he began to control his emotional slip.

The old man never went a day in his life without imagining her soft voice. It was his nectar and she was the flower. Once she let those last few words leave her lip that is when he noticed the waver and distance of her voice. Removing himself from the surface of the window he opened his eyes and stared at the faded image of the woman he had loved and lost.

"Don't leave me. Please… don't go," he whispered, begging to the image as it began to fade. Barely was he able to make out the outline, and once his gaze fell upon her eyes, she vanished from sight.

Balling up his shirt sleeve, he wiped away the tears while he used his other hand and removed the fog on the window from which his hot breath had created, thinking that she was hidden behind it. His heart dropped when she wasn't there. While he stood staring, hoping with great longing that she'd return, his old eyes focused on something else. On a small hill there was a garden shadowed by a crooked tree that had formed a natural perch with its twisted trunk. It was at the base of this tree that had caught the old man's attention. Weather beaten and moss covered, with curls of ivy tracing its surface, stood a single stone. The memory of what she had told him that day began to flood his conscience thought. A time before the stone existed.

He was bent over tending to the garden while she was nestled in the bend of the tree with her nose in her favorite novel, the name he had long forgotten. Speckled sunlight filtered through the leaves dotting her with small hues of green, causing her eyes to shine with unique shades of light green. He found her to be very beautiful when she was like that, unaware of his gaze upon her. That woman was persistent, though, in trying to get him to read yet he refused. Instead he insisted that she read to him. Of course she would never deny him that but it didn't stop her glowering at him every time he laid a book down without even making an attempt to open its pages.

"I prefer to listen," he would tell her, "you learn more that way."

And so, on that hot summer day after he had finished clearing the garden of its weeds and quenching its thirst, he walked over to her, removing his dirt covered garden gloves as he went. When his shadow cast over her, without so much as a glance in his direction, she smiled. Taking her free hand she patted the small space beside her. He took the welcoming and sat down, leaning in close, burrowing his face into her shoulder. Closing his eyes he took in her fresh clean spring scent that she always carried on her.

"Would you like me to read to you?" Her voice was kind with no hint of annoyance today. He shook his head, burrowing deeper into her shoulder. She took the hint.

As he continued to rest against her he felt a sudden pang in his chest. He winced a bit causing her to glance his way but not for long for he felt her shift back into position to continue to read. Maybe she thought he had just dozed off for a second. When he felt her place a hand against him, his suspicions were confirmed. Minutes past, along with the pain, fading as he began to slip into unconsciousness and into that hazy moment right before sleep when another jolt shot through him. It was then that he realized that it wasn't physical pain but rather one that originates from a deep feeling within. One that is trying to reach for a way out. Lifting his head up off of her shoulder he paused looking for a meaning.

"What's wrong Sasuke?" she asked. He could hear concern in her voice. She always could tell when he was troubled.

When he glanced down at her book he took note that she had not once removed her hand from him, not even to turn the page. Putting on a faint smile and realizing what his body had been forcing him to say he locked his dark soft eyes onto her lighter ones and let the words come.

"I love you."

Her face softened, dispersing the worried look and she gently placed her hands on both sides of his head and pulled him closer towards her. There was a quiet thump as the book fell from her lap and onto a bed of grass; a small breeze rippled its pages. Closing his eyes he felt her lips press against his forehead. The feeling of warmth and deep caring spread through his entire body. She was the only one who had ever made him feel this way. When she released her kiss he felt her breath on his skin as she spoke.

"I will love you forever and always Sasuke-kun. Don't you forget that."

The boy began to cry and the girl with the pink hair embraced him, holding him close.

It was that following year to the date when he placed that stone in its place. Unable to let go of the memories, he found himself visiting the sight every day at sundown. The routine was simply propping his back against the cold hard stone, trying to draw from it the warmth that he had grown addicted to. He was never one to sever bonds, maybe tear them a bit, but never to fully cut apart. He had experienced loss and death in the past, yes, but hadn't experienced love as strong as the one that had bore its way deep within his heart. The sower of that seed had nurtured and cared for it tenderly without smothering it, and with gentle coaxing eventually allowed it to fully bloom. Exactly the way he had with the plants in his garden.

One day, after weeks of silence between the boy and stone, an idea formed in his head. Running back into the cabin he burst through their bedroom door and walked over to her book case. Snatching the first book on the top shelf he headed back out to his little patch of grass, across from his stone friend, and began to read.