Mika waited. She watched the first frost creep across the persimmon trees in their Kyoto garden. She listened for the yuki-tsubaki — the snow camellia’s whisper.

“The snow season,” she said, “is when Japan holds its breath and turns into a dream.”

“Ah.” Her grandfather’s eyes twinkled. “February is the heart. The Sapporo Snow Festival carves ice into castles. The monkeys in Jigokudani sit in hot springs with snow on their heads like little old men.”

Every year, just as autumn’s red maple leaves began to fade, young Mika would ask her grandfather the same question.

“By ,” he continued, tracing the dragon’s spine toward Tohoku, “the snow is deep enough to bury a house. That’s when the yukiguni — the snow country — is born. Places like Ginzan Onsen turn into ghost villages of white.”

Her grandfather, a retired ski patrolman from Nagano, would close his eyes and smile. “Not yet, little bird. The snow is still sleeping in the Sea of Japan.”

“And ?” Mika whispered.