Disclaimer: Naruto and all content therein is copywrite Kishimoto Masashi.
He knows that the world outside is a chaotic gale of wind and snow. He can hear the roar in the vibration that has subtly overtaken the network of his bones rather than with his ears, long numb and frozen. Inside the forest, though, there is nothing but the occasional crash of falling snow against fallen snow.
He is almost there. Just a few more steps and…
The walls of Konoha rise colossal before him. He freezes, the uncomfortable clench of his stomach overwhelming.
His small, ragged traveling pack falls from his shoulders, clattering to the wet soil and scant dust of snow that is present just outside the walls. Thirteen frenzied leaps, and he is there. He doesn't want to go in just yet. He presses his forehead and palms to the cement, wincing at the cold.
Memories that have been locked away in the recesses of his mind burn behind his eyelids. Fall. Naruto, smiling, surrounded by orange and red and grey. Spring. Sakura blushing the same shade as the dango that she offers him. Summer. It is raining, and he is kneeling above Naruto, looking at him in reverse. There is so much blood, and he's afraid that Naruto may never heal. That Naruto's memory of him may never heal.
He gasps at this last memory, and his eyes snap open. He attaches himself to the wall and begins his ascent.
"I want to be forgiven."
At the top, he is in a different kind of forest. This is one of battlements and industrialism and ugliness, but he can see all of the city, and he is home.
He can see Naruto's apartment, and the upper floor of Sakura's house, and Ichiraku. Unsurprisingly, when he looks in the direction of the monument, he sees Kakashi, conversing with the dead despite the storm. He makes his way toward him and hopes against hope that he is not forsaken.
Before he reaches him, something catches his eye. A few yards away from the monument is a new headstone. It is covered with snow and ice.
A flash of memory, and he is filled with dread.
"I'll come home to you—"
He slowly drags his hand along the slate, the snow clinging to itself and falling.
"—and it'll be springtime, and everything will be green and new and right again."
His pupils widen, and his skin burns as his knees skid against the icy ground.
All of the times that I thought I heard your voice.
In the back of his mind, he is afraid that his tears will freeze before they can fall.
'xxxxxxx xxxxxx—'
"I'm sorry."
'—April 4, xxxx—'
"I lied to you again."
'—16 years old.'
"I said it would be springtime."
Engravings of chrysanthemums.
"But I'm finally home."