Yokohama, for once, is quiet.

Fat snowflakes tumble from puffs of cloud. Waltzing lazily into powdered-sugar piles, lining the bare sidewalks and clinging to window sills and street lights as if they had no where else to go. Rich brown bricks, Christmas lights, everything robed in white; the city almost looks like some colossal gingerbread house project, you think, bursting from the front door to plant some tracks on the snow-dressed front yard.

For a moment, you simply stand. Taking it all in. Appreciate every snowflake waltzing down to melt on your upturned face. You inhale; cold wind cuts through your nostrils. Exhale; a puff dances from your open mouth. Sometimes things are best when robed in swathes of white and grey, wrapped in chill and quiet. Beautiful and serene for anyone who appreciates the chill, punishing and raw to everyone else. It almost reminds you of someone. Someone who just happens to be sullenly nestled in the warmth of his doorway, casting you judgmental glances from behind his scarf.

You turn, raising an eyebrow at Akutagawa. Staying inside during snow flurries like these? That just won’t do.