Midori stepped outside and began her rounds.
The first home was three doors down. A pregnant woman with swollen ankles and cracked lips. Midori checked her pulse, pressed gently on her stomach, listened to the rhythm of her breath. All she could offer was reassurance, that is what she could give reassurance. She moved on to the next house. And the next. She felt like a ghost wandering from room to room, touching lives she had no power to actually fix.
By noon, she had seen seven women. All hungry. All anxious. All trying to pretend they weren't.
When she returned home, she found Hayami sitting on a woven mat she had dragged from her own ruined house. Deidara slept next to her, his small breaths fogging the cold air. In front of Hayami lay a group of little clay dolls—round heads, simple limbs, tiny details etched with care. Ten in total.
Hayami looked up at her with something fierce in her eyes.
"Midori-san. I've decided. I'll sell these. All of them. I'll make more. I can earn money."
Midori knelt, her tired bones protesting. She lifted one doll. It was delicate. Charming. And absolutely unsellable in this version of Iwagakure.
Still, she didn't crush Hayami's hope. Crushing it now would only make the fall worse later, and Midori knew enough about despair to understand that you don't push someone into it... you let them meet it themselves.
"You're trying," she said. "That's a start."
Hayami beamed, her smile young and bright in the dim room.
That night, when Deidara finally drifted into sleep, Hayami burned the last of her firewood cooking a small pot of rice porridge. Most of it was water. She saved the thicker grains for later and forced down the watery part with a trembling jaw. Midori watched her eat. The girl hated it—being fed, being helped, being weak. Hope, Midori thought again. Always the first step.
The First Attempt
The first day at the stall felt almost festive to Hayami. She picked a spot near the busiest path in the village—between the supply line intersection and the food vendors. She set up her mat, arranged the dolls neatly, and held Deidara against her chest with a wrap. His tiny presence gave her confidence, or maybe desperation.
She greeted everyone with a smile, bowing politely, calling out gently. People walked past her with their heads down, shoulders hunched, refusing to meet her gaze. They were soaked from the constant rain and too tired to offer politeness.
But Hayami didn't let it faze her.
By evening her feet hurt, her back ached, and the dolls sat untouched. Still, she returned home smiling.
"It just needs time. People need to know I'm here. The right person would eventually come to buy."
Day Two
The second day brought the same result.
Hayami kept up her bright expression even when people began crossing the street before she could speak to them. Some pretended they didn't hear her; others pretended she wasn't there at all.
By sunset her voice was hoarse from repeating the same lines.
But she continued.
When she returned home, she didn't smile this time. She fed Deidara and stared at the dolls like they were something accusing her.
Midori watched her crumble just a little.
Day Three
The third morning she tried again.
This time, people started to change routes. Hayami noticed. The hurt flickered across her face like a cut she didn't want to acknowledge.
She stayed until the light faded. She went home with her shoulders slumped and her hands shaking from hunger. She didn't cry. But her silence was loud.
Day Four
Two men approached her stall mid-afternoon. Hayami's face brightened with raw relief. She stood up straighter, ready to sell the dolls.
"How much for the night?" one man asked.
She blinked. "I'm selling dolls, not—"
"Who cares about dolls," he cut her off. "People don't waste money on trash during wartime."
The second man leaned closer. "You're young. You should earn while you still can."
Their tone made her stomach twist. Not from fear—though that was part of it—but from humiliation. The kind that burns hotter than any fire release.
Deidara sensed her distress. Maybe it was her heartbeat or her breath hitching. The baby suddenly wailed, loud and sharp. A cry too strong for his small body.
People turned to look.
The men swore under their breath and walked away quickly.
Hayami gathered Deidara in shaking arms. Her face was pale. Her breath uneven. She stayed for a while longer but made no attempt to call out to anyone again.
Midori pretended not to notice. If she spoke, Hayami would break.
Day Five
Her enthusiasm didn't just fade. It vanished.
Hayami looked like someone running on fumes. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. Deidara clung to her clothes with tiny fists, sensing something even without understanding it.
She lowered the price from ten ryo to five.
It didn't matter.
A small family passed by—a young couple and their daughter. The little girl's eyes lit up the moment she saw the dolls. She tugged her mother's hand sharply.
"Mom, I want one!"
For a heartbeat Hayami almost cried from relief. A child wanted something she made. Someone saw value in it.
But the mother pulled the girl away quickly.
"No. We don't waste money on that."
The girl looked back longingly. Hayami watched them walk away until they disappeared around the corner.
She sat there long after, staring at the dolls like they were gravestones.
--
Each day chipped away pieces of her.
She still talked to Deidara, still cradled him warmly, still fed him whenever she could. But her voice grew quieter. Her smile thinner. Her hands trembled more often.
She tried other ideas—singing, sculpting bigger things, offering handmade toys, even repairing broken clay pots. Nothing stuck. People had no money, no time, no patience.
By the end of the week, Hayami had sold nothing. Not even a single doll.
The porridge pot was nearly empty.
Deidara cried more often now—not the sharp cry of hunger, but the soft exhausted whimper of a baby sensing the world tightening around him.
Hayami looked at Midori one night and whispered, barely audible, "I won't let him starve."
Midori's heart clenched. She recognized that tone too well. The moment hope starts turning into something dangerous.
She watched Hayami stroke Deidara's face with trembling fingers.
She didn't say anything. Not yet.
Hope first. Then loss.
Then her time to provide the choice.
Midori had done it dozens of times.
But this time, watching Hayami, watching the baby who had done nothing but be born into a starving, bloody country… this time it felt heavier. Much heavier.