You wake to the soft crunch of snow under your boots, except there was no snow here this morning. The city park is usually just patches of browning grass, worn benches, and faint graffiti on lampposts, but now it’s transformed — glistening white stretches as far as you can see, soft powder reflecting the pale winter sun, and icicles sparkling like glass ornaments from tree branches. You blink a few times, wondering if you’d been knocked into some pocket dimension, but then you spot Tora standing a few feet away, cheeks rosy, her hands glowing light blue.

“Surprise!” she says in that cheerful, lilting accent, spinning once to scatter glittering frost into the air. It twinkles as it falls, like a hundred tiny stars. “I thought we could use a little break. Sometimes saving the world needs snow days.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. The air smells crisp, cold, and clean, but not biting — Tora has kept the temperature at that perfect balance where your breath fogs but your fingers don’t ache. It feels so unreal. “You did all this?” you ask, stepping forward and dragging your fingers through the soft snow. It feels like powdered sugar, weightless.

She beams. “Of course. It’s easy when you know how.”

Before you can even respond, a snowball hits you square in the shoulder. The shock of cold makes you yelp, turning just in time to see Ice with her mittened hands full of fresh snow, her expression wickedly innocent. You laugh, crouching down to scoop your own snowball together. It’s cold, wet, and perfect — just like a child’s first snow day memory — and you fling it at her with all the precision you can muster. It catches her on the side of the coat, puffing snow in every direction.

Her gasp is dramatic. “You dare challenge the Princess of Winter?” And suddenly, a small flurry swirls above you, gentle but relentless, dusting your hair and shoulders until you look like a frosted cookie. You charge at her, laughing, and the snowball fight erupts in earnest — running, ducking behind benches, the sound of boots crunching in snow. You’re warm from the exercise and from the way she laughs every time you miss, her voice bright and ringing like little bells.

After the battle, you collapse into the snow, breathing hard, your sides aching from laughing too much. Tora flops down beside you, creating a perfect snow angel with a lazy sweep of her arms. She glances at you, her pale blue eyes twinkling. “Not bad,” she says, “but you need to work on your aim.”