Falling Snow

  As her consciousness slowly evaded her, Inês wondered if there was any better way for a weeb to die than in a truck collision. Lying on the roasting hard ground, she felt nothing. It was a hot summer afternoon in Porto, and she had been on her way home from the conservatory; her lesson had run late that day, so her father couldn't come pick her up like he usually did. She wouldn't have taken that path on a normal Tuesday. Now, she thought, she would never get to go to Japan and visit the Tokyo Tower or the Asakusa Temple, stroll about in Dotonbori, or get her picture taken at the Kiyomizu-dera.

Her father was a kind man; yes, he was strict, especially when it came to academic matters—enrolling her in an international school so she could learn to speak fluent English (even insisting on using Shakespeare's tongue at home over that of Camões), only expecting consistently perfect grades, or demanding she study scientific subjects despite her fondness for the humanities—but he did all he could for Inês: always acting as her protector and ally, enjoying their time spent together, and shuttling her to and from her music lessons. What's more, she didn't have anyone but him. She had lost her mother at the meridian of her life, and it had only been the two of them ever since. He would probably panic when she didn't make it home on time. She hoped he wouldn't feel guilty; this wasn't his fault. That ice cream truck had come out of nowhere, and she had been heedlessly singing when she should've been paying attention to the road.

She could only move her eyes when she heard it: it should've been a sweet, soothing melody; something like a lullaby, but it felt wrong somehow; distorted. She knew it from before, but she couldn't remember from where. This version went slower than she recalled. Maybe she was losing her senses. That was when she saw it: a flurry of lights; white, a glint of chrome, and a bright blue glow. After that: only black. When she came to, the tiled Portuense street had vanished from underneath her, and its baking warmth with it. The ground was now soft and bitterly cold. Blinking, she felt snowflakes on her long, light-brown lashes. Indeed, it was snowing. Realizing she could now move, she sat up. The vast forest around her was blanketed in a heavy layer of snow. She wasn't in Porto anymore.

Inês got up slowly. She felt no pain, not even discomfort. She thought it was weird, but she didn't dwell on it: the world around her was weirder. The lush, dark green forest was laced with white, and the wind made the trees dance languidly for her. The sky was awake, still shining with an intense silvery tone, but the sun was hiding in plain sight. She advanced with caution, her pace slow and deliberate; surveying her surroundings with a curious eye. The young girl wasn't dressed for this weather: she was wearing a linen button up shirt and a pair of corduroy pants. At least she had on her trusty Doc Martens. In her earthy tones, and with her pale, alabaster skin, she fit perfectly in this mysterious tableau.

“Is anyone there?!” she called to the void, her voice doubtful and unsettled.

Her breath misted before her. She awaited a response, but none came. She trudged onward, stepping over dusky, dense roots and ducking under bowing branches. Other than the wind and trees, the forest was eerily silent. She didn't see any animals, nor could she hear them. Maybe they were hibernating, she thought. A sweet odor, something like French vanilla, emanated from all around. It should've been pleasant, but she found it unnerving. The falling snow was soft and ice cold to a hot degree; it burned almost. And then, after turning around a large cedar, she saw it: a form standing a few steps ahead of her. It was small and shadowy, bulky and bizarrely shaped, like it was hunched over. She couldn't quite make it out.

The feeling that ran over Inês was primeval; she had no dominion over it. From deep within its caverns, her body signaled danger. Her heart began to slam around in her chest, pressed and worried, and her breathing quickened into short, silent flashes. Pearls of icy sweat crystallized on her front. Soon, she felt a flow of energy cascading down on her. On red alert, she froze.

“Hello?” she asked, uncertain.

Again, there was no response.

Her eyes darted rapidly, scanning the area for a flight pathway. Her legs shuddered, but her feet stayed planted.

“Hello?” the word stayed halfway buried in her throat; she was pleading, now.

Thinking she'd have to get closer, but being wary still, she moved toward the figure, always making sure to leave some vegetation between the two of them. If she still had her phone, she could've used the flashlight, but her pockets were empty. Keeping her gaze fixed forward, she progressed. Her vision had focused intensely, Inês noticed. The world around her muffled and tunneled, but what was right before her sharpened. And so, it was only as she got nearer, a couple of steps away from him, that she realized what she was looking at: a young boy, maybe eight to ten years old. He was wearing some kind of straw cape; she had seen a coat like this in manga and anime before—a straw raincoat, like the ones worn by travelers. Thick and stiff, it murmured in the wind. Inês let out a sigh. She felt more at ease now, but not by much. She continued, looking for the courage to speak up again, but she didn't have to. Once she was only a meter away, the child seemed to take notice of Inês. His visage lit up and he turned to face her.

“It's a cold one, today, isn't it?” he asked in a cheerful tone. “I was making my way to the shrine when I noticed you. Will you join me?”

“The shrine?” she repeated.

Where in the world had she landed, she wondered. Trying to get a clue, she looked at the young boy more closely. He seemed Japanese, with beautiful brown eyes that didn't blink. Under his mino, he was dressed in a plain yukata, and his head was protected from the snow by a conical straw hat. Oddly, he wasn't wearing anything on his feet despite the harsh terrain. He didn't seem bothered by it, though. Inês wasn't sure where he'd come from or how long he'd been standing there: around him, the ground was unmarked by footprints.

“Maybe I hit my head and I'm just seeing things,” Inês started hesitantly. “But, where are we?”

She had an inkling… but, no, she thought, it couldn't be.

The boy looked up at her from under his kasa, bearing a bright grin.

“Why, this is Japan, of course!”

She took a step back; faltering.

Inês had only noticed it now, but the falling of the snow seemed to slow down whenever he spoke.