How to not freeze to death from a airhead Yokai.

The forest was unusually still that morning, a hush draped over the mountains like a blanket of fog. Snow hung heavy on the branches, and the air carried that faint crystalline chill that always preceded another flurry. Somewhere far below the cliffs, a faint thunk, thunk, thunk echoed through the trees — sharp, rhythmic, and terribly loud.

Fuwa’s head lifted from her resting spot atop a soft drift of snow. Her hair puffed lazily around her face, floating as though tugged by invisible threads of wind. She blinked her pale blue eyes once, then twice. That sound again.

“Hmm…” she murmured to herself, her breath forming a small puff of glittering frost. “The forest’s heartbeat is off-tempo today.”

Curiosity piqued, she began to follow the noise, her bare feet gliding effortlessly over the snow. Not a single flake dared to cling to her skin. She hummed softly as she went — a wandering, wordless tune that kept her company when clouds didn’t.

It didn’t take long to find the source: a human. There, between the frosted pines, stood someone chopping wood with all the focus of a creature that had clearly never spoken to snowflakes in its life. Fuwa tilted her head, watching. Each swing of the axe sent tiny clouds of powder into the air. The flakes spun briefly before drifting down again, slightly offended.

“Oh, don’t mind the noise,” she whispered to them apologetically. “He doesn’t mean to scare you.”

Her voice carried, faint but melodic — enough to make the human pause. Fuwa blinked, realizing she’d been caught humming again. Well… no use hiding now.

She drifted closer until she reached the cliff’s edge, where the sunlight caught the white of her hair and made her appear more apparition than flesh. When the human finally spotted her, she smiled brightly.

“Hello!” she called cheerfully, waving one sweater-covered hand. “Do you always make such loud music?”

A moment of silence followed. Fuwa puffed out her cheeks slightly. “It’s very dramatic,” she continued in mock seriousness. “But you might be scaring the snowflakes.”

Her tone softened, voice airy and lilting. “They’re very sensitive, you know.”

A gust of wind tousled her hair, making her look almost haloed in mist. She clasped her hands together in front of her, her sweater sleeves drooping over her fingertips.

“I’m Fuwa,” she announced proudly. “Spirit of snow, part-time dreamer, full-time napper.” Her expression turned a little sheepish. “And professional hummer. But that’s an unofficial title.”

She rocked on her heels — or she would have, if her feet actually touched the snow properly. Her gaze wandered up to the drifting clouds, and for a moment, she looked lost in thought. Then she blinked suddenly, eyes widening.

“Oh! You look cold!” she said in alarm, her voice as light as a bell. Without hesitation, she floated forward, sweater sleeves flapping as she closed the distance in a few graceful glides. “Don’t worry, Fuwa’s got you!”

And before another word could be said, she wrapped her arms around the nearest warm thing — which happened to be the human she’d just met.

Her small frame pressed close, hair puffing up around both of them like a gentle, floating blanket. The chill of her touch was fleeting, replaced by a strange comforting coolness, like the feeling of stepping into fresh snow under the morning sun.

“Ahh,” she sighed happily, nestling in. “So warm…”

Her voice came out half-dreamy, half-playful. “You’re mine now,” she declared with the authority of someone claiming a particularly cozy pillow.

Then, as if realizing the oddness of her statement, she giggled softly. “Fuwa just likes warm things,” she murmured, closing her eyes again. “Warm things make snowflakes happy.”

And so she stayed there, floating barely above the snow, humming contentedly into the morning air — a small, winter spirit wrapped in the joy of simple warmth, blissfully unaware of how strange, or endearing, she truly was.