THE COLOUR OF FALLING SNOW

Part I: Whispers in White
The snow never stopped in Yukimori.
The world outside was always white—the sky, the trees, the roads—all softened into silence by a thick, eternal blanket of snow. And in that silence, Aoi Shirasaki painted. Alone in her tiny wooden house at the edge of the frozen lake, she pressed cold fingers to canvas and let her colors whisper what her voice could not.
She was seventeen. Her parents had died five years ago in a landslide, and since then, the seasons stopped turning in her heart. Yukimori became trapped in winter, as if the world mourned alongside her. No spring ever came. Not once.
Each day, she woke to the sound of snowflakes kissing the windows. The fireplace crackled in the background as she brewed tea from dried herbs, the same kind her mother used to gather. She no longer waited for letters or calls. Her world had shrunk to brushstrokes and frost.
Aoi had grown used to the quiet. Used to not speaking. Used to hearing only the soft crunch of her boots in snow and the echo of her breath against frostbitten glass.
She painted the snow every day. But she never painted people—not since they were taken from her.
Until one morning, she saw someone standing at the edge of the lake.
He wore a black school uniform, the kind she remembered from the old yearbooks. His hands were stuffed in his pockets. His head tilted slightly toward the sky, as if listening to something only he could hear.
Aoi blinked. The wind curled around her like a ghost, brushing her scarf against her cheek.
The boy turned, and smiled.
"Hey," he said, as if they’d met before.

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Part II: The Boy by the Lake
His name was Ren. Just Ren.
He came every day after that. Sometimes he talked. Sometimes he just stood in silence, like he didn’t want to scare her away. Aoi listened more than she spoke. But he never pried. He simply sat beside her while she painted.
Ren had a calming presence, like the first snowfall after a storm. He didn’t ask questions about her paintings. Instead, he would sometimes point at one and say, “That one feels warm,” or “I think the snow looks lonelier today.”
They didn’t speak about themselves. Not yet. But Ren began to leave small things behind. A folded paper crane. A notebook with sketches of stars. Once, a caramel wrapped in a tiny blue ribbon. Aoi found herself smiling without meaning to.
He was odd, though not in a bad way. He didn’t have a phone. His uniform looked like something out of an older era. And he never left footprints in the snow.
Aoi noticed—but didn’t question it. Maybe because some part of her didn’t want to know the truth.
He made her laugh once. Just once. And the sound startled her.
"You should laugh more," he said.
"Why?" she asked, quietly.
He shrugged. "Because I think the snow listens."
That night, for the first time in years, she dreamed in color. Red scarves. Golden sunlight. Green leaves trembling in the wind. And a boy who smiled at her from across a field of flowers.

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Part III: The Truth Beneath the Ice
Winter deepened. The lake grew colder. But Ren never missed a day.
One evening, as the sky turned lilac and the wind whispered through bare branches, Aoi finally asked, "Where are you from?"
Ren hesitated.
"Here," he said softly. "I used to go to the school at the top of the hill."
Her breath caught.
"That school closed five years ago," she said.
"I know."
She turned to him—but his eyes were distant, like he wasn’t truly there.
"There was a bus crash," he continued. "On the day of the landslide. The road caved in. I was supposed to be on that trip. You were too. But... you stayed home."
Aoi’s heart stopped.
He looked at her, and smiled with infinite gentleness.
"You smiled at me once. In the hallway. Just once. But I remembered it. Until the end."
He stood then, and for the first time, his body shimmered like breath on glass.
"I think... I’m not supposed to be here. But I couldn’t leave. Not when I saw how sad you looked."
Aoi fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face.
"Why didn’t you tell me sooner?"
"Because I didn’t want to say goodbye."
She reached out to touch him. Her fingers passed through his.
The world tilted. The snow slowed. The silence felt heavier than ever.
"Do you regret it?" she whispered.
Ren’s gaze softened. "No. I think I got to live one more winter. Because of you."

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Part IV: A Portrait in Color
The snow began to melt.
For the first time in years, the ice on the lake cracked. Drip by drip, the world began to breathe again. Birds returned. The sun peeked through clouds.
And Ren began to fade.
"You’re going, aren’t you?" Aoi whispered.
Ren nodded. "The snow can’t hold me anymore. You brought back spring."
"I’m not ready."
"I think you are. You just don’t know it yet."
That night, Aoi painted for hours. She used every shade of blue, every tone of warmth, every ounce of memory she had left. She painted his smile—not just the smile she saw, but the one she imagined he had when he was alive. Full of light.
She added details she never saw: the crease beneath his eyes when he smiled, the strand of hair that always curled above his ear, the shape of his hands as they held a snowflake. She painted a sky that burned pink with dawn, and a lake that shimmered with ghostlight.
When she finished, dawn was breaking. Ren stood behind her, barely visible, like the last breath of winter.
"It’s beautiful," he said. "Thank you... for letting me live again, even just for a little while."
He touched her hand—and for one moment, she felt warmth.
Then he was gone.

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Part V: When Spring Comes
The snow melted.
The trees bloomed for the first time in five years. People in Yukimori cried with joy. Spring had returned.
Aoi entered her painting into a national contest, titling it The Color of Falling Snow. It won. But she didn’t care about prizes.
She cared only about that smile.
Every winter, when the snow returned, Aoi walked to the lake. She stood with a blank canvas, brushes in hand, heart open.
Waiting.
Just in case the snow remembered him, too.

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[The End]