SNOW

Snowed once more last night. When I woke up, the world was white enough to devour all noise. I had always loved that first breathe of dawn- the air so crisp it ached to breathe, the sort of silence that was not dead. Our house is situated at the rim of the valley, the last wooden structure before the trees begin their gradual climb into the mountains. Some mornings I think the mountain is breathing with me, exhaling fog that floats down to touch the roofs like a benediction or warning.

I kneel on the veranda, sweeping the powder from the boards. My hair loses its distinction from it. When I was little, Grandma would laugh and call me shirayuki, her snow girl. The other villagers called me yuki-onna when they thought I couldn't hear- the ghost woman who lures travellers to their deaths. She is reported to look pale and beautiful, just before a storm. I wondered if the legend came before me, or I came before the legend.

Close to the shrine, a wispy circle of incense still rises from the offering bowl I lit yesterday. The fox statues are half-buried in snow, their stone faces quiet under the frost. I light another stick and bow. I don't ask for healing or money. Just for a way out. I never tell the gods where I want to go; maybe they already know.

When I straighten up, snow catches in my eyelashes. The world is bright for one moment. Then I catch sight of the groan of the path behind me.

Grandma is standing there, wrapped up muffled in her old brown coat, with a kettle that puffs out a thin thread of steam. "You'll freeze, Win-chan," she says. "Come inside.".

Her voice is gentle but weary, like the hum on the radio that never quite disappears in our house. She still uses the name "Win" to address me, a reminder of when my parents were overseas. They left when I was five. Told me they would come back after they made some money, and the promise got lost somewhere during the journey. Sometimes I still write letters to an imaginary location.

Inside, cedar smoke and miso perfume the air. Grandma sets tea in the chipped cups and turns on the old TV that sits on the top of the cabinet. The screen jolts before stabilizing on a channel: a morning show with idols in glittering dresses warbling about summer when the snow outside the window is taller than the post-box. The picture distorts, catches, clears again—smiling faces of girls my age as if pain was a foreign word.

Grandma breathes out. "Always so cheerful," she grumbles. "It's good to be young.".

I smile, but the smile on the screen is too white. I remember the first time I gazed at one of those girls, years ago. How the face on the television had opened a doorway inside me, the kind of doorway which can never be closed once you have looked in. From that time on, I have sensed the city pulling towards me, a seeping tide underneath my ribs.

After breakfast, I walk to the bus stop for school. The road winds through empty fields where white lines cover all furrows. The air tastes of iron. A crow alights on the power wire, a dark blot against the book of heaven. Everything here glides as slowly as ice melts. The same people, the same hallos, the same tired stores with paper lanterns which have remained unlit for decades.

Heat is banked in the school corridors from the old gas heaters. My classmates congregate in little pools of giggles, phone screens illuminating their faces. When I walk past them, they hush their voices but I catch the words: "So white." "Creepy, isn't it?" "Pretty, though." They avoid eye contact when our eyes meet.

I sit by the window and watch snow fall over the playground. I used to think to be different was punishment. Now I'm not so certain it's a preparation.

After classes, our teacher tells us that guests from Tokyo will watch the winter cultural performance. "Act," she warns. "They're looking for talent students." The name Tokyo glistens in the room like heat.

I help Grandma prepare dinner this evening- daikon soup, rice, pickles. She hums an old song while I wash the bowls. When I say the guests, she smiles faintly. "Tokyo is another world, Win-chan. Don't let its lights blind you."

"I just want to see them," I say. "Just once."

She places her hand on top of mine. Her skin is thinner than paper. "Snow looks clean because it covers up what's underneath."

The next day, the gym smells like wax and anticipation. We're dressed in our uniforms and perform the same folk dance we've been learning since we were little kids. When my turn comes near, I stand up, bow, and begin to dance through the routine. The wooden floor feels ice-cold against the tops of my socks. I am focused on the rhythm, the hem's sound, the music beat through the cheap speakers. Among the crowd of adults standing in the back, there is one who stands out in a long black coat. He is not applauding like the rest of the people. His eyes are fixed on me- solid, judging.

Then, while I'm changing shoes, he appears by the door. "That was lovely," he says in a soft Tokyo accent. "You have a rare presence."

I blink. His hair is neatly parted, his scarf still dusted with snow. He looks incongruous among the hubbub of parents and teachers. "Thank you," I stutter.

He hands me a tiny card. White, embossed letters: Matsuda Talent Agency. "There are auditions next month," he says. "You should go."

I grasp the card. I can't feel my fingers for a second. "Why me?"

He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Because you're someone people can't forget."

And then he's going off, leaving footprints that evaporate at once as the wind begins to blow.

I stay awake that night. I flip the card over under the pale lamplight, tracing my fingers over the gold edges. Outside, the snow keeps falling, layering upon layer, until it seems the world has disappeared. I shut my eyes and see Tokyo's lights- sleepless streets, bodies screaming my name from enormous screens. Beyond the mountains, somewhere, the life I want already exists, shining just out of reach.

Grandma's door glides open. She peers in, the lamplight carving lines into her face. "You're still awake?"

"I got an invitation," I whisper, and extend the card.

She takes it for a long time, then sets it on my desk with care. "Dreams are heavy things, Win-chan. See that you can carry yours."

When she's away, I think once more of the vacant white space around the typed-out name. It's like snow- beautiful, vacant, and impossible to hold on to.

I wrap up and close my eyes, but the city keeps shining behind them, refusing to fade.

Outside, the wind sighs along the leaves, muttering something that I can almost catch.