Before the Echo: The Mizuhara Legacy

  Chapter 1: A Different Journey

  The morning sun crept across the wooden counter as Takashi arranged skewers in a row. Steam rose from the cooking surfaces, carrying the smell of sauce and grilling meat into the Konoha streets. Behind him, his father tended to the main grill, his movements steady and familiar.

  "You're rushing the turning, Takashi," Mizuhara Hiroki said without looking up. His hands followed the same routine they had for years, flipping skewers with the same timing for as long as he could remember. "Precision before speed. Always."

  Takashi sighed but slowed down. At seventeen, he'd heard this correction countless times, and had long since noticed how his father used it as his answer for everything. "The lunch crowd will be here soon, and I wanted to prepare more chicken skewers before they arrive."

  "And they'll appreciate properly cooked ones more than rushed ones," his father replied with the same advice he'd been giving since Takashi was old enough to help at the stall.

  He nodded with approval at his son's work, not noticing the small improvements Takashi had added that went beyond his father's plain cooking style.

  From the back preparation area, his mother emerged carrying a tray of freshly cut vegetables. Mizuhara Aiko's face brightened the small stall more than the morning sunlight ever could. "Are you two talking about technique again? Some things never change."

  She set down the tray and began arranging the vegetables in tidy rows. "Looks matter, Takashi. People eat with their eyes first." Her fingers moved quickly, organizing ingredients in a practical, familiar pattern that customers had come to expect.

  "I know, I know," Takashi replied, but he smiled as he said it. His mother's attention to detail had always amazed him.

  A familiar customer approached, an older woman who lived nearby. "Good morning, Mizuharas! The usual, please."

  "Of course, Tanaka-san," Takashi replied, already reaching for her preferred skewers. As he worked, he felt his father's eyes on him, gauging his movements.

  "So, Takashi-kun," the woman said as he prepared her order, "I heard some exciting news. Is it true you've been accepted for an apprenticeship?"

  Takashi's face lit up as he nodded. "Yes! With Chef Morioka in Tanzaku Town. I should be leaving next month."

  His mother's hands briefly paused in their work, though her smile remained fixed.

  "Such an opportunity!" Tanaka-san exclaimed. "Your parents must be very proud."

  "We are," his father confirmed, though Takashi noted the complicated expression that crossed his face. Pride mingled with something else… concern, perhaps, or resignation.

  The conversation shifted as more customers arrived, and soon the small stall was busy with the lunch rush. Takashi moved between tasks, taking orders, preparing skewers, and serving customers with increasing confidence.

  The evening found the Mizuhara family seated around their small table at home. The modest apartment above a nearby shop wasn't large, but it was comfortable, filled with the collected treasures of a family that appreciated quality over quantity.

  Scrolls with calligraphy hung on the walls, many featuring proverbs about food and family. A small shelf held Takashi's growing collection of cookbooks and culinary scrolls from distant regions.

  Aiko set the last dish on the table, a simple but perfect arrangement of grilled fish, rice, and seasonal vegetables. "Eat while it's hot," she encouraged.

  As they ate, the conversation inevitably turned to Takashi's upcoming departure.

  "Chef Morioka's confirmation letter arrived today," Hiroki said, reaching into his robe to produce a sealed scroll.

  Takashi accepted the scroll, excitement and anxiety battling within him as he broke the seal. His eyes scanned the formal language, confirming his position and outlining expectations.

  "Three years," he murmured, the reality of it finally sinking in. "I'll be away for three years."

  His mother reached across the table to touch his hand. "Time passes quickly. And you'll write to us, yes?"

  "Of course! And I'll learn everything I can," Takashi promised. "When I return, I can help expand the business. Maybe even open a proper restaurant instead of just a stall."

  His father frowned slightly. "Your Kaa-san and I have done well enough with the stall. Not everyone needs fancy cooking." He paused, seeing Takashi's expression fall. "But your ambition is good, I suppose. Just remember that reliability matters more than flash, Takashi. People want food they can count on, day after day."

  Takashi nodded, though inwardly he disagreed. There was so much more to cooking than just reliability.

  His parents exchanged a look across the table before his mother spoke. "We've been talking, and we're planning a short trip next week."

  This surprised Takashi. His parents rarely left Konoha, preferring the steady routine of their business.

  "A trip? Where to?"

  "There's a supplier in a village to the east," his father explained. "They offer specialty ingredients that would be perfect for your going-away celebration. Something to help you start your training right."

  "We want you to have something special to remember us by," his mother added with a warm smile.

  Takashi felt a flush of emotion. Despite their simple ways, his parents were trying to support his dreams in the best way they knew how.

  "You don't have to—" he began.

  "We want to," his father interrupted, then softened his tone. "Besides, it will give you a week to run the stall on your own. It'll be good practice for independence."

  His mother gently squeezed his hand. "Just don't forget where you came from, no matter where you go. Cooking is how we show love without words."

  Takashi looked at his parents. His father's weathered hands from years of work, his mother's gentle eyes… and suddenly understood the gift they were giving him. Not just ingredients, but their blessing to follow his own path.

  "I'll make you proud," he promised.

  "You already do," his mother assured him.

  The morning of his parents' departure dawned cool and clear. Takashi helped them prepare, packing a small travel bag with essentials and food for the journey.

  "Remember to check the rice twice," his mother said for the third time. "The delivery from the market comes tomorrow morning, not afternoon. And Tanaka-san likes her chicken skewers with extra sauce on the side—"

  "Aiko," Hiroki interrupted gently, "he knows. You've told him everything twice already."

  She sighed, then smiled apologetically at Takashi. "I know you'll manage beautifully. I just worry."

  "Everything will be fine," Takashi assured her. "It's only a week."

  His father finished securing their travel pack and turned to Takashi. "Consider this practice for your own journey," he said, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. From his pocket, he produced a small, carefully wrapped package. "This was going to be part of your going-away gift, but I think you should have it now."

  Takashi unwrapped it to find a small chef's knife with a beautifully crafted handle. "Tou-san, this is…"

  "My first professional knife," Hiroki finished. "It served me well when I was starting out. Now it's yours."

  The weight of the blade felt right in Takashi's hand, the balance perfect. He knew how much this meant to his father, who treasured his tools.

  "Thank you," he said, voice thick with emotion. "I'll use it with care."

  His mother embraced him tightly. "Remember, the stall is closed on Wednesday. Use the time to rest."

  "I will," he promised, returning her hug. When she finally released him, he was surprised to see tears in her eyes.

  "We'll be back before you know it," she said, quickly wiping them away.

  His father nodded firmly. "One week. Take good care of our business until then."

  Takashi stood at the village gate, watching until his parents disappeared from view. Something about their departure left him oddly unsettled, though he couldn't have explained why.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Shaking off the feeling, he turned back toward the market district. The stall wouldn't open itself.

  The first day running the stall alone was challenging but manageable. Takashi found himself appreciating his father's neat organization of supplies and his mother's clearly labeled sauce containers. The lunch rush was hectic, but he handled it with only minor mishaps. A slightly overcooked skewer here, a delayed order there.

  By the third day, he had found his rhythm. Regular customers were supportive, some even offering encouraging words when they saw him working alone.

  "You handle that blade differently than your father," one elderly merchant commented. "Been studying those cooking scrolls from the capital, haven't you?"

  Takashi couldn't hide his smile. "Thank you for noticing, sir. I've been trying some different techniques."

  The fifth day began like the others. Takashi arrived early, prepared the ingredients, and lit the charcoal, watching as it transformed from black to glowing red. The morning passed in a steady stream of customers, and he found himself enjoying the responsibility. Perhaps running a business wasn't so different from what he imagined his apprenticeship would be. Challenging but rewarding.

  Midday brought a lull, and Takashi used the time to restock and clean. When he heard footsteps approaching, he looked up with a welcoming smile that quickly faded.

  The village messenger stood before him, expression somber, his Konoha headband gleaming in the sunlight.

  "Mizuhara Takashi?" the chunin asked formally.

  "Yes, that's me." Something cold settled in Takashi's stomach.

  "I need to speak with you privately. It concerns your parents."

  The world seemed to slow, sounds becoming muffled as if Takashi were underwater. He mechanically turned down the grill, hands moving through the safety procedures his father had drilled into him.

  The messenger led him to a quiet corner away from passing villagers.

  "There was an incident on the eastern road," he began, voice professionally detached yet not unkind. "A group of travelers was caught between warring bandits and a merchant caravan."

  "My parents?" Takashi heard himself ask, voice strange to his own ears.

  The messenger's expression softened slightly. "I'm sorry. They were identified by their travel documents. There were no survivors."

  Takashi stood very still, the words washing over him without fully penetrating. No survivors. No survivors. The phrase echoed in his mind, hollow and meaningless.

  "There are official matters to attend to," the messenger continued. "And arrangements for your parents' rites. When you feel able, please present yourself at the village records office."

  Takashi nodded mechanically. "Thank you for informing me," he said, the formal response coming automatically.

  As the messenger departed, Takashi returned to the stall. Customers had begun to gather again, unaware of how the world had just shattered. He looked down at his hands, his father's knife still held in his right, and wondered distantly why they weren't shaking.

  "One pork skewer, please," a customer requested, approaching the counter.

  Takashi nodded, turning to the grill. His movements were hollow, his face blank as the news settled into him like a weight. The customer, noticing something off in his expression, backed away awkwardly.

  Through the afternoon haze, Takashi continued serving, his actions becoming increasingly distant and automatic. Only when an elderly regular customer gently took the utensils from his hands did he stop.

  "Go home, son," the old man said kindly. "Whatever it is, this can wait."

  Takashi looked around, suddenly realizing the stall was nearly empty, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the street.

  "I should close up," he said, voice flat.

  "Yes," the man agreed. "You should."

  Takashi doesn't remember clearly how he secured the stall or walked home. The apartment felt eerily unchanged.

  His father's slippers by the door, his mother's teacup still on the table where she'd left it five days ago… The silence pressed against him like a physical weight.

  No survivors.

  The reality finally crashed through his mind, and Takashi sank to his knees in the empty home.

  The funeral was held two days later under overcast skies. Takashi stood perfectly straight throughout the service, his face a mask of composure. The cemetery was dotted with small groups of mourners attending various services. It was a common sight in a shinobi village where death was an accepted part of life.

  His parents' funeral was small. They had been ordinary citizens, respected by their customers and neighbors, but not prominent in village affairs. A handful of regular customers attended, along with suppliers they had worked with and a few distant relatives who lived nearby.

  As the service concluded, conversations around him drifted into his awareness.

  "To run into bandits..." Just a wrong turn. That's all it took to end their lives.

  "Just folks in the wrong place at the wrong time..." If I had gone instead of them...

  "Such bad luck to travel during these border tensions..." They were getting ingredients for me. Because of me.

  "The son is what, sixteen? Seventeen?" Seventeen. Too young to be standing at my parents' funeral.

  "Too young to handle that business alone..." They don't think I can do it.

  "Might be best to sell the stall, start fresh..." Sell it? Never.

  This last comment penetrated Takashi's fog of grief. Sell the stall? The thought had never occurred to him. The small food stall had been started by his parents when they first moved to Konoha, their dream and livelihood.

  An older merchant who had supplied their rice for years approached Takashi as the crowd began to disperse.

  "My deepest condolences, young man," he said, bowing respectfully. "Your parents were good people. Fine customers."

  "Thank you," Takashi replied automatically.

  "If you need anything in these difficult times... perhaps assistance with the business arrangements..."

  Takashi's hand tightened around the chef's knife in his pocket… his father's last gift. "The business will continue," he said, surprising himself with the firmness in his voice.

  The merchant looked taken aback. "Of course, of course. It's just, a young man like yourself, with other opportunities ahead..."

  "The business will continue," Takashi repeated, bowing slightly to end the conversation.

  As he walked home alone, the weight of that declaration settled around his shoulders like a mantle. The apprenticeship scroll sat on his desk at home, still waiting for a response.

  The stall remained closed for five days after the funeral. On the sixth morning, Takashi unlocked the shutters and entered the small space that had been the center of his family's life. Dust had gathered on the counters, and the absence of his parents' presence felt like a physical ache.

  He moved through the space slowly, wiping surfaces and checking supplies. A small note from his mother caught his eye on the prep counter. A shopping list of ingredients they'd planned to bring back from their trip. Items he'd never seen in their kitchen before, exotic spices and specialty ingredients that would have expanded his cooking knowledge.

  The neat handwriting blurred as he read the final line at the bottom: "For Takashi's new journey."

  His throat tightened as he carefully folded the note and placed it in his pocket.

  On the counter near the serving area, he found their recipe book. It was a worn volume filled with family recipes that hadn't changed in years. His father's plain handwriting listed amounts with never-changing numbers, while his mother's notes focused mainly on practical things. Where to find the best prices on ingredients, which regulars preferred which dishes. The recipes were simple, reliable, and never surprising… exactly why Takashi had been so eager to learn culinary techniques elsewhere.

  They had been proud of him in their own way, even if they hadn't always understood his wish to go beyond their small stall and see the wider world of cooking.

  On the counter beside the recipe book sat the acceptance letter. Chef Morioka was expecting his response within four days. The opportunity he had dreamed of for years was still within reach.

  Takashi sank onto the preparation stool, the one his father had always used, and for the first time since the funeral… allowed himself to break down completely.

  His sobs echoed in the empty stall, grief pouring out in waves that left him exhausted.

  When the tears finally dried, he sat in silence, the first light of morning starting to peek through the cracks in the shutters.

  A memory came to him, his father at this counter, carefully measuring ingredients the same way he had for years.

  "The business works because people know what to expect from us, Takashi," he had said once when Takashi suggested trying a new recipe.

  Another memory followed, his mother's satisfied nod as she arranged plates exactly as she always had.

  "Our customers feel at home here," she had told him with a gentle smile. "That's worth more than any fancy cooking."

  Takashi looked around the small stall that had been his family's legacy. Then he looked at the acceptance letter again. The opportunity that had seemed so important just a week ago…

  Standing slowly, he moved to the desk in the corner where his father had handled the business accounts. Finding a clean sheet of paper, he began writing:

  "Esteemed Chef Morioka,

  It is with deep regret that I must decline the apprenticeship position you so generously offered. Due to the sudden passing of my parents, I have inherited responsibility for our family business. My duty now lies with preserving what they built.

  Please accept my sincere apologies and deepest gratitude for the opportunity.

  Respectfully, Mizuhara Takashi"

  After sealing the letter, he placed it with the outgoing mail. Then he returned to the stall and began preparing for opening.

  "One step at a time," he murmured to himself, his father's words becoming his mantra. "Just not the steps I expected to take."

  The reopening was far from triumphant. Takashi struggled to manage every aspect of the business his parents had run so smoothly as a team. Orders were forgotten, skewers overcooked, and change miscounted. By midday, he was exhausted and discouraged, the sympathy in his customers' eyes only making it worse.

  Several regulars tried to offer help or advice, but their well-meaning suggestions only highlighted how much he had to learn. The day's earnings were dismal, and as afternoon faded into evening, Takashi found himself considering closing early.

  The shadows had lengthened across the street when a large figure approached the stall. Takashi looked up to see a young man he didn't recognize. Tall and robust, with distinctive red hair and clan markings on his cheeks. An Akimichi, clearly, though not one who had frequented their stall before.

  "I heard this place makes the best yakitori in the village," the Akimichi said, his voice surprisingly gentle for his size.

  Takashi could feel his ears burning with embarrassment. "Not today, it doesn't," he admitted honestly. "I'm still... adjusting."

  The Akimichi's eyes showed understanding beyond his years. "Ah, I see. Well, in that case—"

  "We're closing soon," Takashi added hurriedly, not wanting to face another disappointed customer.

  Instead of leaving, the large shinobi settled onto a stool at the counter. "Then let me be the judge of what you can do tomorrow," he said simply. "I'm Akimichi Chōza, by the way."

  Something about the young man's direct gaze reminded Takashi of his father's steady presence.

  A flash of stubborn pride, inherited from that same father, made him straighten his shoulders.

  "If you're willing to wait," he heard himself say, "I can prepare one more order."

  Chōza smiled, genuine warmth in his expression. "I'd be honored."

  Takashi turned to the grill, his father's knife steady in his hand. "Precision before speed," he whispered to himself. "Always."

  For the first time that day, his hands moved with confidence as he began to cook.

  A/N: Hey everyone! Sorry this isn't an actual chapter of Ren's story, but I really wanted to write this. Something called out to me to give Ren's dear old dad some spotlight.

  Did you like this glimpse into the Mizuhara family's past? Would you want to see more of these "Before the Echo" stories? Maybe a chapter about how Takashi and Kaori met, or perhaps Kenji's introduction to the family from his perspective?

  Let me know in the comments! And don't worry! I'm still working on the next regular chapter of Ren's journey. This was just a little something extra I couldn't get out of my head.

  Thanks for reading!