title: tranquility
prompt: #20 - anniversary
summary: home has never felt more like home.
Sarada wakes early, as usual, reaching over to her bedside table as she sits up, fumbling for her glasses. As her vision clears and focuses, her eyes dart to the calendar hung on the wall across the room—today's date is outlined in neat, red lines, and a smile finds her lips.
With a single movement, Sarada tosses off her blankets in excitement before tucking them over her mattress, fingers fanning out to smooth away wrinkles. She passes through her bedroom door, bare feet pattering against the wooden floor beneath her.
Rushing down the hallway, she passes the front door of the house. Papa's slippers are cast by the welcome mat, where they have been for an entire year by now since Papa hates wearing slippers, even though Mama always urges him to put them on, especially during the winter.
The shelves of the sitting room are now riddled with various family pictures, accumulated from the duration of the year in which Papa has been home. Sarada smiles at her favorites: one of Mama and Papa out in the garden planting tomatoes, one of Papa carrying Sarada piggyback-style and making a peace sign at the camera, and a family portrait Mama asked the Seventh to take on Sarada's birthday. Mama's poking Papa to stop scowling at the Seventh, Papa's scowling at the Seventh, and Sarada's in the middle, smiling brightly.
The Seventh's pinky finger somehow made it into the picture, and Papa blamed him for doing such a terrible job later.
Gaze running over each framed photograph, Sarada sighs happily. Home has never felt more like home.
When she enters the kitchen, breakfast is already laid out over the table, each dish homemade and warm. Even with just a glance, Sarada can tell what Mama prepared (she most likely cut the strawberries, tomatoes for Papa, and the other diced fruits) and what Papa prepared (steaming cups of green tea, white rice). She can tell they made the miso soup together, taking turns to stir the pot and watch for bubbles, as well as the steaming fresh fish with grill marks written across its skin.
Mama and Papa are outside in the early sunlight following yesterday's light shower, seated on a bench they all made together in the backyard, and Sarada sees them from the kitchen window. They are still and quiet together, but comfortable in each other's presence, as they always are. Mama's leaned against Papa, no distance between them, and his arm is draped around her, pulling her close. They sit in the sun together, not saying a word.
But there is so much being said, Sarada knows this by now. Papa and Mama have their own way of speaking without sound. Papa's fingertips are tracing love into the palms of Mama's hands, and when she tilts her chin up at him and beams, it speaks a million novels. There's a gentle curve to Papa's lips, the simplest of smiles, but Mama knows how much it means.
"Anata," Sarada hears Mama say, as she kneels by the window, the curtain a shawl over her shoulders. She holds her breath, making sure to be absolutely silent. "Look at the birds..."
A pair of bluebirds flies past, and Papa watches them chase after one another, making loops and spirals. He leans closer to her. "They seem to be enjoying the sun after yesterday's rain," Papa says. He then gestures to their garden, the leaves of their plants speckled with drops of dew and rain. "And the strawberry plant's blooming nicely."
Mama hums, nodding. "I think it's safe to say all of them are. This year's growing season has been better than ever."
Sarada feels the corners of her lips rise; she can't remember her parents any other way. They have always been Mama and Papa as easily as breathing, balanced and stable.
Papa turns around when Sarada places a hand against the surface window. He and Mama smile at her.
"Come join us, Sarada," Papa says.
And so she does, at once, dashing out to the backyard, her feet still bare. There is a spot on the bench next to Mama saved just for her.