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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.
Every year, just as autumn’s red maple leaves began to fade, young Mika would ask her grandfather the same question.
“And ?” Mika whispered.
He nodded. “From , little bird. But in the mountains? Sometimes the snow remembers until May.”
That winter, when the first flake finally fell — soft, fat, silent — Mika ran to the window. She turned to her grandfather and smiled.