Naruto opened the door and a rush of cold air hit his face, the warmth that used to radiate the place now long gone. Silence seemed to haunt the home as he took his shoes and cloak off, the crew chief of their floor Epthaized, he could still smell the faint scent of baked cake. He decided to keep the lights off, he didn't want to know what this place looked like in the light, it might be a little too real for him at the moment, if he kept it dark he could pretend he was in a dream, a horrible, sickening dream that he couldn't wait to wake up from. Taking a good look around, of course, everything is in spick-and-span shape, cleaned and organized. The trash piled up in the corner, assuming all of the party decorations were occupied inside of it, he'd have to take that out tomorrow. The streamers still hung on the door frame, he'd clean that up later. But other than that, the place is spotless, but what did he expect coming from his wife?
He simply stood in the middle of the kitchen scanning his surroundings. She saved a piece of cake for him, apparently made by Himawari and Hinata together. She wanted it to be extra special since he was finally joining them. His eyes were downcast. The cake was a basic strawberry with whipped cream, though the oddly placed orange, yellow, purple, and red edible candies made it stand out. A dry laugh escaped his lips as he took a bite before covering it up and placing it in the fridge. For some reason, it didn't taste quite right.
He sat on a chair, lifting his head up and covering his eyes with his arms as he stared into the ceiling. He stayed there for a minute or two, listening to the clock ticking, his heart beating, and his shallow breaths. And he hated every second, because now there was no longer the Hokage sitting in the middle of this kitchen.
No no, now there was a small boy wearing an orange jumper with a head Protector inside of a small kitchen filled with empty ramen cups, the boy gazing onto the ceiling wondering why it never seemed to matter how far he ran, that pathetic peice of loneliness would always be sure to follow. That kid's breathing become even more shallow, his throat clenched up but no sound released from his mouth, he simply stared at the ceiling for way too damn long. Hearing the ticking of the clock. The sound of the leaves. The breathing of his heart. And he hated every. Single. Second.