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She carries herself, wearily and without much life towards the tombs and for the millionth time, thinks of all the things she could have done and didn't do. She doesn't cry, hasn't cried for years and years (and maybe that's the real problem) but easily chokes on the suffocating air and stumbles with the weight of every death on her shoulders.

It isn't enough to repent.

It never will be.

The names are many and for each one she can see a face, smiling or talking, laughing or crying, bleeding and choking and screaming and dying. These are people she knew, had shared the same air with; had been alive with. Death is not numbing. Death is painful.

And yet, even so, death is the only constant, the one comfort in the life of a shinobi. For true shinobi live with death on their sleeves and hope in their dreams.

She traces over the names softly; each regret and each mistake something that she will never forget. This is habit, now. This ritual mourning for things past. Once a year, this day, she is allowed to mourn and for the rest, she must be strong.

Because if she does not stay strong then she knows that she will surely break.

The quiet padding of a skilled shinobi (one who means to be heard, one who, if need be, could take away all sound and become silence itself) fills the area and not so soon she is not so alone.

"Kakashi…sensei." He hesitates before laying a hand on her shoulder (always hesitating when anything becomes personal, always afraid of physical contact, of emotions, of caring, love) and then squeezes ever so gently. If this were any other day, she might just be surprised; he has never offered her comfort like this, not in all the years they have stood next to each other in front of this sad, sad stone.

But today is not a day for surprise and so she isn't. She accepts it and leans into his frame and wraps now empty arms (the flowers are already on the ground, something else that will wither and die) across herself in a pathetic semblance of a hug.

He doesn't do anything more, but he doesn't push her away, either. For that she is grateful.

It seems like days (as it always does) have come and gone in the few hours she spends there but it still isn't enough. He wraps his hand around her arm and calmly leads her away. The sun is setting and the memorial is looming, always present, and the names of comrades and loved ones are still there and she does not cry.

She does not cry but when they make it back into town (it is dark and every shop is closed and she thinks it suits her mood perfectly) he turns around and wipes at her cheeks. She gives a crooked smile.

"And what was that for?" He looks her in the eyes and replies with his own plastic upturn of the lips (not a smile, something fake and hurt and so completely understandable that she really does want to cry).

"Just because you can't see them doesn't mean they're not there." And so with hands not quite shaking, she reaches up and lightly brushes the spot under his eyes, covered in cloth and more self hatred than anything she has experienced yet.

He gives her the closest thing to a surprised face as he has ever and even though it isn't her day to be surprised, apparently the same thing can't be said for him.

"Just because you can't see them doesn't mean they're not there, Kakashi-sensei." It is her turn to grip his arm and quietly lead him farther into town. The air is thick, not with tension, but with memories, she guesses, and the moon is as untouchable as it always is.

"…It's going to rain, Sakura."

"Yeah. It is."

And that would be perfect because today is the only day in the year that she gets to mourn and once tomorrow comes around there will be no weaknesses.

They sit down on a bench and wait for the downpour.

It doesn't fail them.