Grey water. Grey sky. A dampness that climbed under your clothes and stayed there.

Twelve years old, hands shoved deep in his pockets, he'd been sent along on a diplomatic errand with his father and a handful of Chunin. Officially, he was there to observe. Unofficially, he was there because his mother had insisted a change of scenery would do him good.

It had not.

By the third day he'd slipped away from the lodge, following a path that wound through the reeds until it ended at the river. No one was there. No one had told him about it. That was the only good part.

The water ran so clear he could count the stones on the riverbed. He stood on the bank a moment, then dropped onto the grass with a grunt, staring up at the clouds through the branches of an old tree.

Someone was sitting beneath the tree, close enough that his shadow nearly touched theirs. He hadn't noticed them until now. They hadn't said anything. They were just... there. Watching the river, or maybe the stones, or maybe nothing at all.

Shikamaru glanced sideways. Then he looked away again and folded his arms behind his head.