The people whirl past, their voices are strangled by the silence and all that he can hear is the whisper, so soft and strong and seductive, and it tastes of the rice balls his mother used to make him, of a musky scent that he only ever found buried deep in his father's shirts, of a fan and a family both so strong that some days he still wakes up forgetting that all that's left is the dust of the legend. It tastes of memories, and he can't say no 'cause he doesn't wake up screaming from them. Besides, he reasons, even if it disappeared tonight he doesn't think he'd notice, not now he's saying the words too.
"The ghost of the Uchiha lives in that house."