Then she handed it to Hayami. "Here. Try this."
Hayami woke Deidara gently. His face scrunched in confusion before instinct took over. The moment the milk touched his lips, he latched on greedily.
Midori watched quietly. The sound of the baby sucking filled the tiny hut, soft and rhythmic.
Hayami let out a long, shaking breath. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with the rain still clinging to her hair. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you, Midori-san."
The old woman shook her head. "No thanks needed. You did what a mother should... you ran through a storm to feed your child."
For the first time that night, Hayami smiled... small, weak, but real. She brushed her son's cheek with her thumb. His tiny hand reached out, wrapping around her finger.
Midori sat beside them, her eyes lingering on the bottle. "That milk," she said softly, "is all that's left for now. The neighbors who sold it did so because they needed money to feed their own. I can't promise there'll be more tomorrow."
Hayami's smile faded. "Then what do I do when it's gone?"
Midori looked at her carefully. "You eat. You rest. Your milk will come back."
Hayami hesitated. "But there's no food—"
"I'll help," Midori said firmly. "We'll figure something out. I still have dried beans. And old rice. You'll stay here tonight."
Hayami wanted to protest, but she was too tired. The warmth of the hut, the sight of her baby feeding, the exhaustion from the run... it all caught up to her.
She nodded weakly.
Midori moved to close the door and fastened it against the wind. "You rest there, by the fire. I'll make some porridge."
Hours passed. The storm outside raged, but inside, the air was thick with quiet. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the soft breaths of the baby asleep on Hayami's chest.
Midori stirred the porridge slowly, her thoughts elsewhere. She glanced at the young woman by the fire... fragile, barely more than a child herself, but fierce in the way only mothers could be.
She remembered the words she'd said earlier, half to herself. The milk was the last your body could make after two days without food.
It wasn't a scolding... just truth. War had taken everything, even a woman's ability to nourish her child.
Hayami's voice broke the silence. "I keep thinking… maybe he should have been born somewhere else. Somewhere with proper food, proper house. I can... I can give him nothing."
Midori turned. "You can't think like that."
"I can't help it," Hayami said, looking down at her son.
Midori sighed. "None of us did. But we make do with what we're given."
Hayami traced the curve of her baby's face with her finger. "He's so small," she whispered. "And yet when I hold him, it feels like he's heavier than the world."
The two women sat there in silence for a long while. Outside, thunder rolled across the mountains, fading slowly into the distance.
Hayami fed on the porridge Midori gave her, every spoonful tasting like gratitude. She could already feel warmth spreading through her body, her fatigue easing slightly.
When she finished, she whispered, "Midori… will he survive this war?"
The old woman didn't answer right away. Her eyes lingered on the baby. "Children have a way of surprising us," she said at last. "He will live, if you keep him close and keep hope alive."
Hayami nodded, though her throat ached. She looked down at Deidara again... asleep, peaceful, untouched by the noise outside.
"He looks like his father," she said softly. "That same stubborn mouth."
Midori smiled. "Then he'll be trouble."
"Maybe," Hayami whispered, her voice thick with emotion. Midori poked at the fire, sending sparks dancing.
The rain began to slow.
Hayami leaned her head back against the wall, her body finally relaxing. The warmth of the fire mixed with the steady rhythm of her son's breathing, and for the first time since he was born, she let her eyes close.
Midori watched as the young mother drifted into sleep. She checked the rations in the house. I have saved for 2 weeks, but now we can only sustain 1 week.
--
She dimmed the oil lamp and it slowly became dark. Hayami and the baby were curled together on the mat Midori kept near the stove. Their breathing had fallen into the same quiet rhythm, like exhaustion had shaped them into one small, fragile silhouette.
Midori slipped her shawl over her shoulders and stood slowly, making sure the old wooden floor didn't creak under her weight. She watched them for a moment... Hayami's arms wrapped tightly around the child even in sleep, as if she the world outside would steal her baby if left unattended.
The sun had gone down a while ago, swallowed by the last bands of cloud crawling across the sky. Midori remembered what she'd promised earlier. The meeting. It couldn't be avoided.
She grabbed the canvas bag near her door. A bit of dried fish, a worn cloth, a small lantern. Enough to look like an old woman going to fetch water or visit a relative in the next block. Nothing suspicious.
She stepped out into the night.
The rain had thinned, clinging to her hair and shawl, making everything look blurred and hollow. Puddles reflected faint lantern light from the vendors still stubbornly sitting by their stalls. Just the soft tapping of water and the distant clatter of someone locking their stores for the night.
Midori moved down the narrow alley behind her house. She didn't like this part... the quiet always made her uneasy... but she didn't slow down. Whoever was waiting wouldn't appreciate her wasting their time.
The meeting place was a small shrine platform near the abandoned storehouse. Burned incense sticks lay scattered around from earlier offerings. The scent had long faded.
Someone was already there.
--
A/N: For Advanced Chapters, you can choose the amount you want to pay. @patreon.com/DeidaraTheFourth
This story will be a slow burn so it will take time to develop. Currently caught up with other fics, but if the support on it is good enough then, I'll provide regular updates. If you are bored, you can check out other fics👇.