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There are never two of the same snowflake.
Intricate, delicate, and minuscule. These crystals are formed by water droplets freezing, combined with condensed water vapour. Once heavy enough, they fall to earth, encountering different temperatures, winds, humidities, changing their structure. An average of one septillion snowflakes floating from the sky each year. A white, icy blanket enveloping the world. A winter miracle.
Rarely do two snowflakes ever share an identical appearance. The same environment transforms each snowflake in distinct ways, varying crystals chipped away by different elements of nature. Supposing there exists such a special pair, there will always be a singular molecule which sets them apart.
Similarly, there are never two of the same person.
Complex, unique, and significant. Each person tells their own story. Once born, they move through life. Meeting different lifeforms. Setting foot on new land. Discovering various prospects. Like snowflakes, these experiences shape the identity of each person. Specks of sand in the vast ocean of Earth. An evolutionary wonder.
Rarely do two people ever share an identical appearance. When this phenomenon occurs, their personalities and stories easily differentiate them. Existing as two separate identities.
In no world will the same identity exist twice.
Once the weather turns warm, the coming of spring, the blanket lifts, signalling the awakening of the world from its quiet slumber. Each tiny snowflake melts away, returning to earth, continuing the cycle— following the law of conservation of energy. The journey of each crystal is subsequently wiped from the world.
Unlike snowflakes, a person's existence cannot simply be “erased.” Although the law of conservation continues, carrying what remains of the dead back to nature— the markings they leave on the world show proof that they have lived. Birth certificates. Personal trinkets. A footprint in the soil, a scribble on paper, the trace of a touch. These singular, irreplicable traces.
In this world, each remnant is exclusive to one person. That is what makes them so special.
…
Unlike a crystalline snowflake, which disappears when it melts, a person can live beyond death. Tales and prose carry their journey across lands. Melodies and songs pass from ear to ear, mouth to mouth, reminiscent of someone who once was. If a person occupied a corner, even just some faraway, hidden corner of a heart or a mind, they would still be considered living.
Memories.
With memories, a person, that single identity, lives on forever.
Silence. There were no leaves for the wind to rustle. The sky was painted a weary, pale blue, reminiscent of glass. Animals rested in their warm, cosy dens.
The snow crunched under Yuichiro’s sandal. A small, warm breath escaped his lungs, condensing into white vapour. As white as the world around him.
He gathered a bunch of firewood from the pile stacked outside his home. The bunch was much too large for those tiny arms to wrap around. He teetered, stumbled, nearly falling backwards, but steadied himself. His feet were already numb from the cold. His bare arms stung from the cold.
It was still freezing when he re-entered the house, pushing through the hanging piece of hide that their father had fashioned years ago out of some animal's fur before shutting the door. The hide barely insulated the house, barely kept the frosty air out of their home.
How come it felt so useless now? When Mum and Dad were alive, it wasn’t half the chill. Yuichiro made a mental note to fix the insulator as soon as he could.
Muichiro was watching embers pulse in the irori, a thick quilt wrapped around him. Seeing that the flames had weakened, he blew at the charcoal, watching ash and sparks fly out.
‘Nii-san.’ breathed Muichiro, throwing off the blanket, revealing a coat a bit larger than his own size, and standing up. ‘Let me—’
‘No— you stay there.’ Yuichiro cut him off sharply. ‘It’s hard enough to try and hold all of these together myself.’
Ignoring his younger brother's worried stammers, he deftly threw the bundle next to their stove, then grabbed four logs of firewood and brought them to the irori.
Soon, the flame was revitalised, crackling gently, breaking the silence, and bringing warmth to the atmosphere.
After a short moment of observing the dancing flames, Yuichiro said, ‘It’s late. Go make the rice.’
‘Okay.’
When Yuichiro looked at their food storage, he felt his heart drop. They barely had anything left for the month, and the days were just going to get colder. Winter was rarely short and never gentle. He glanced at Muichiro, diligently washing rice, and his heart grew a new crack. How was he supposed to take care of his little brother now? It would be difficult to get by, let alone stay fully fed and eat healthy. Muichiro was still a growing boy, and he couldn't be exempt from anything good.
Why didn't he collect more food before winter came? They had too much firewood to use between the two of them; he could've gone down to the village and exchanged some for rice and other dry goods. He should've gotten thick wool to make a new coat for Muichiro. It was inconvenient to move around in big clothing. Yet, though the fabric was frayed, faded, shabby, like their small home, it was all he had left of Mother and Father. Yuichiro could not bear to cut up parts to make them fit.
He hated his emotions for getting in the way of his survival, and he hated himself more for thinking of these thoughts.
I can go to the stream tomorrow. Yuichiro peeled off the tough outer layers of some bamboo shoots, trying to move on from his own incompetence. There should be some frozen trout stuck in the ice. I can make steamed fish with the smaller ones, and cure the larger ones. Either way, it'd be a good source of nutrients. Cracking them out of the ice would be difficult, but I can try. That's the least I can do.
With a cleaver the size of his own forearm, Yuichiro skillfully sliced the bamboo shoots into small crescents, working in a steady rhythm. Suddenly, he felt a sting on his arm, which sent a spasm through his muscles, and he nearly chopped his own finger off. He couldn't help but yelp.
‘Nii-san! Are you okay?’ asked Muichiro, dropping the bamboo tube that he'd been using to blow at the stove's fire.
Yuichiro looked closer at his inner arms, now realising the numerous scratches that dotted his skin, turning it slightly red. Some of the slits had the tiniest drops of blood leaking out. Without the numbing cold, he was made aware of the stinging, like little pinpricks dancing on his skin. It must've been from the ice crystals which formed on the firewood.
Not wanting to worry his younger brother, he snapped while rubbing the injuries on his yukata, ‘I’m fine. Focus on the rice. We haven't got much left, and if you burn this batch, you're eating all the burnt parts.’
Of course, he didn't mean it. If push came to shove, Yuichiro would tie Muichiro in a blanket while he forced down all the charred grains himself.
Alas, none of his words held any weight. Muichiro did not return to his chore; rather, he hastily went over to check on his older brother. It was when his younger brother yanked at one of his arms did Yuichiro realise he'd been rubbing them against his clothes the entire time. To clean them, perhaps, or to distract pain with more pain.
‘Scratches…’ murmured Muichiro, eyes downturned. He dragged Yuichiro over to the large jar of water, took off the top, and reached in with the bamboo ladle.
Understanding what he was trying to do, Yuichiro, who had been verbally protesting, pulled his arm away so fiercely that it stunned his brother. Heaving with frustration, he berated, ‘You idiot! This is barely anything, don’t waste our water! The stream is frozen and we won’t be able to get any fresh water for weeks! Do you want to drink ice?! How careless can you be?!’
Muichiro blinked with creased brows, his lips forming a nervous pout. ‘This isn't wasting. Nii-san, you're hurt, and we have to clean your wound.’ He reasoned, pleading. ‘Remember what Father used to tell us about that girl in the village? She got a small cut on her finger, but it was that tiny thing that killed her. What if it happened to you?’
Yuichiro could not reply, and Muichiro took the opportunity to advance. He held his brother's arm again, this time, gentler.
‘Even for the smallest injuries, you've always helped me wash and wrap them.’ Muichiro paused, seemingly at a loss. ‘Just a little bit of water would be fine. You don’t have to wrap them, if you want.’
It was difficult to say “no” now. Yuichiro took a deep breath, making sure to sound as exasperated as possible. ‘Fine. Just a bit.’
The pot bubbled quietly, hanging on top of the irori. Holding his breath, Yuichiro pushed a spoon into the rice sticking against the walls of the iron. To his relief, it came off easily, the water having done its job at soaking the grains, making them soft enough to not leave a sticky residue on the pot. The grains were a little golden-brown and hard, but at least they were still edible. Thus, Yuichiro's prepared lecture on rice cooking silently died in his throat. The bamboo shoots have also been cooked through.
Yuichiro got some ochazuke for Muichiro, then for himself. They each held a bowl of rice and soup and bamboo shoots themself.
‘Thank you for this meal.’
After tasting a little bit of the food, Yuichiro was mortified at how plain it was. The flavour wasn't much of a problem, but it had barely any nutrition. He gnawed on his spoon, vowing to cut at least five fish out of the stream of ice in the morning, even if tomorrow greeted him with a violent snowstorm.
‘Nii-san,’ began Muichiro timidly, his cheeks tinted pink from the warmth of the meal. ‘I'm sorry.’
Yuichiro almost choked on the rice and bland water he was trying to force down his throat.
‘It was my fault that you got all those scratches. If I hadn't been wearing Mum’s coat, and had given it to you, then maybe you wouldn't have had to go through that.’
For some reason, his words evoked a mixture of pity and anger that left a hole in Yuichiro's chest. He huffed, firing his usual cruel words, ‘Then what? I'll have to deal with a sick child again? That time you got ill a month or two ago was an exhausting experience.’
He lied as naturally as he breathed. For those four days and four nights, Yuichiro had stayed by his little brother's side, only leaving when he was forced to. The towel on Muichiro's forehead was always cool, any bit of sweat was always wiped off, and a warm bowl of plain porridge was always provided. The young boy abstained from food and sleep, hunger vanishing whenever his hands felt a burning forehead, drowsiness disappearing whenever his ears picked up a pained groan. His head might've pounded, and his vision might've blurred, but everything was pushed out of his mind the moment he saw Muichiro’s weak body. At dawn on the fifth day, Muichiro's fever subsided. Overwhelmed with relief, Yuichiro was knocked unconscious by malnutrition and lack of sleep, unable to wake up until the sun had long gone below the horizon. Needless to say, that night had been a confusing and chaotic one.
Having his apology be ruthlessly shut down by the target, Muichiro lowered his head and continued eating with a small sniff. Seeing this reaction, Yuichiro felt guilty and wanted to apologise, but quickly pushed the urge down by reminding himself that this distance would be good for Muichiro.
Instead, he cleared his throat. ‘Besides, I told you to wear it, didn't I? It’d be worse if you didn’t listen to me and got sick again...’ He found it difficult to weigh which response was worse, but his brother seemed pleased, evident by a shine returning to his round eyes.
The rest of their meal went on in silence, although they had another quarrel about who would have the last scoop of ochazuke at the end. Good intentions veiled under cutting words, Yuichiro emerged victorious like always, as he made sure Muichiro finished off the food with a terrifying glare.
Yuichiro lay on his back, gaze fixed on the dilapidated ceiling. His eyes moved from one spot to another, taking note of which places needed fixing, and which materials would be the best fix to patch up those spots. Connecting up in the most logical manner, his thoughts trailed, from where he could get those materials to how he might attain them… Even the howling wind outside did not disrupt his flow of plans.
Cough.
Yuichiro whipped his head to the side so fast that his neck could’ve broken. As if he had been writing out all his plans, stacks upon stacks of paper were shoved away to the back of his mind, thrown haphazardly, carelessly. He only stared at the person lying across from him. Blankly.
Except, what he saw wasn't a person. A curled blanket lay where his brother once was, quivering in the cold night. He glanced around and saw the red, pulsating embers of charcoal, immediately understanding.
Yuichiro threw off his own blanket, instantly getting goosebumps from the frigid air that attacked him, and walked over to the ball. He kneeled, observing his shivering brother, so concerned that he dared not breathe. His hand reached out, then retreated. Reached out again, then pulled back. Finally, he mustered up his courage, and delicately touched the top of the blanket, where he assumed where Muichiro's head would be.
‘Muichiro,’ he whispered, a quiet murmur, soft as a summer breeze. ‘Are you cold?’
As expected, a head poked out from the blanket, nodding tiredly.
Yuichiro's heart ached. Poor Muichiro. He, who would effortlessly drift off to sleep the moment his head hit a pillow, was kept awake by the freezing weather. It must be incredibly tiring and frustrating to endure these conflicting sensations.
‘Don't worry, I'll stoke the fire. It'll be warm soon.’
With those words, Yuichiro hurried to bring the irori back to a roaring life.
I should've fixed the hide sooner. Why didn't I fix the hide sooner? It's too late now. I could've hunted something before winter came— then I'd have both something warm and I can even cure the meat. I could've prepared for winter better. The first days weren't cold, I could've gotten more vegetables, foraged for some more food. He gathered a few bits of firewood.
Why? Why didn't I do it? Did I forget? I could've sold more firewood at the village! There would've been cotton, I could've padded clothes! There were so many things I could've done, why didn't I do them? How was I so unprepared? Everything Mother and Father taught me— everything that I saw— what was it for? I'm so stupid for not following what they thought. He gathered flint and tried igniting the wood.
If Muichiro's hungry it’s my fault. If Muichiro's cold it's my fault. Last time he was sick, wasn't it my fault for not drying his hair properly after he played in the rain? I didn't pay attention— I should've paid more attention! Sparks flew from the flint, none of which lit a fire.
My fault for not being well-prepared. It's because of me. If we don't survive this winter, it's because I couldn't take care of everything properly. He struck the flint again— missed— and scraped his finger. A drop of blood dripped down his hand, falling into the ash.
I'm sorry, Mum. I'm sorry, Dad. Your eldest son is unfit for his role. Quicker, harsher movements, but no fire.
I miss you. Come back. I'm sorry. Come back. I'll be kinder, I'll be nicer. I won't say hurtful things anymore. Mum, I won't lecture you about overworking yourself. Dad, I won't yell at you for wanting to help people. I'm sorry. You can do everything better than me, you can keep everything running. I'm sorry for trying. Don't leave us.
Yuichiro let his hands fall limply to the sides, now realising how hot his chest was, how stuffy his nose felt. He blinked rapidly while tilting his head upwards. Wishing, hoping that the tears would disappear. He clutched the jagged piece of flint to direct his focus somewhere else, in an attempt to quiet his ragged breathing.
‘Nii…’
Yuichiro turned back to see that a hand had accompanied the head in exiting the blanket. It was reaching towards him. Muichiro, in his half-asleep, half-awake delirious state, was calling for him.
‘Mn.’
He abandoned his current task with no hesitation, and disappeared beneath the blanket. Yuichiro jolted from how cold it was, a bone-chilling frostiness that pierced his bones, numbed his mind, bit his skin, as if he'd sunken into the Sanzu river. How could he have allowed things to get this bad?
The moment he let the blanket fall on both of them, Muichiro quickly hugged him, snuggling close. It reminded Yuichiro of the litter of rabbits he saw once, curled together in a big, fluffy pile.
‘Wait, I need to get my…’ His voice trailed off into nothingness. Yuichiro watched with half-lidded, tired eyes as his brother's rattling breath slowly turned into something rhythmic, quiet, painless.
He shifted, putting an arm under the crook of Muichiro's neck for support and lifting Muichiro's arm out from underneath him. An action to ensure that neither of them would wake up with a sore limb in the morning.
Yuichiro rested his head on top of Muichiro's, blinking lazily. He picked up a lock of Muichiro's hair with his right hand. It was tangled and slightly dirty. They needed to wash it soon. The hair was dropped, alongside his arm, which rested on Muichiro's shoulder.
His focus drifted back to his little brother's strange behaviour, and he sneered.
You’re much warmer than me, why cuddle up to me for warmth?
Finished with his trivialities, Yuichiro tried to fall asleep. Memories from the past surfaced…
Old winters. The weather could be described as even worse than it was now. Yet, it was warm in their home. The wood inside the irori stayed burning the whole night. Yuichiro had always been curious about how his father maintained the flame.
Yuichiro and Muichiro would lie between Mother and Father, as the four of them squashed together to share body heat. It was silly, Yuichiro had thought. But his ridicule always died out at that comforting warmth that guided him into a deep slumber.
That feeling of peace.
He remembered staring at the pulsing light, reflecting on his father's strong back, illuminating his outline. His mother had covered his eyes with her hands, calloused and rough due to labour. Yet it was the softest touch in the whole world. His father had always declared with pride, “Even the most beautiful goddesses in the Heavens, the kindest fairies in the forest, and the loveliest of flowers are no match to Mama.”
Yuichiro agreed.
‘Mum?’ he had asked— a low murmur, so Muichiro, fast asleep beside him, would not wake up.
‘Close your eyes, Yui,’ rang out that songbird-like voice. ‘It’s too late to stay awake. Go to sleep, my sweet baby.’
He obeyed. The coziness, the affection, the relief… a gentle pull, leading him down a path… drowsier… drowsier…
To something that once was.
Yuichiro's eyes snapped open. He bit his lip, trembling slightly, though not out of cold. Freezing to death was the least of his concerns.
The wind roared with laughter, as if it was jabbing at his naivety, mocking him with the painful past. It raged and swirled, testing his meagre preparations against its mighty power. It slammed against the house, shaking the walls. It wanted to prove his inadequacy.
Emotionlessly, Yuichiro picked up more of Muichiro's hair, then let the strands fall from his fingers.
‘I'm sorry, Muichiro. I'm such a miserable wretch.’
The words never emerged into sounds, only mouthed by the child. Fearing his brother would catch wind of the thoughts he buried the deepest.
Yuichiro had always locked all his negative emotions in a cage. An amalgamation of horrors, a disgusting monster, always baring its fangs, clawing at its enclosure. It gnawed at him from the inside, tearing meat and exposing bone, drawing blood as threats, so that he would release it, and let his misery swallow him up.
‘I’m sorry for calling you incompetent, when I was always the incompetent one instead. What was I even born for? Can't even keep you warm and healthy and happy— can't do the simplest things— what kind of brother am I? What kind of person am I? Someone who failed you, someone who failed Mum, someone who failed Dad, is that who I am?’
No matter how much it hurt him, he did not allow it to leave. In his mind, he always stared at the monster's eyes.
It was like glaring into a mirror.
The image of something that was less than human.
‘Maybe you should've been the older one instead. You’re kinder, stronger, more compassionate. You took after Mum and Dad’s virtue. I inherited nothing from our parents. I'm an outcast. If you had been the older one, maybe things would be different.’
However, there are times when the monster gets too rowdy, too uncontrollable. Yuichiro would search out isolation, somewhere no one could be hurt but himself. He'd release the monster out, letting a bit of negativity trickle away, until it could be controlled again. Letting go of rationality and falling victim to darkness, wholly allowing the disturbing emotions to control him.
Bitterly, he'd cry and cry, until his tears dried up like the desert.
‘Am I even human? Do I deserve to be human? I—’
Something cold grazed Yuichiro's cheek. He turned to the ceiling, just in time to see a few snowflakes sneak through gaps in the roof. Floating, swaying like a leaf, they glittered in the moonlight. The moment one snowflake fell upon his fingertips, it melted away. Gone forever.
Yuichiro rubbed the tips of his fingers together, feeling the water.
It made him think. His mother— the memory sounded like her— once told him a tale. About snowflakes, people, and memories. About identity and existence. Yuichiro resonated with the story. He couldn’t put his finger on why. The more he dwelled on the matter, the more he understood. His confusing thoughts were like a tangled ball of yarn slowly being unraveled.
Softer than a heartbeat, slower than the breaths of a sleeping person, as faint as can be, he whispered,
‘Muichiro, please forget me when I die.’
The revelation came to him with a mysterious tranquillity. He continued to stare blankly past his fingers at the tips of Muichiro's hair, the same shade as his own.
‘Muichiro, you love too easily, and too deeply. I make you cry, yet you still smile at me. I berate you, yet you care to wash my wounds. I hurt you, yet you turn to me for comfort. Muichiro, are you an idiot? I want to know. How could you still love things which harm you?’
Words rushed out uncontrollably. The monster was allowed to frolic, unrestrained by any rationality. Yuichiro bit his tongue, trying to control his shaking. Trying to stop the words from becoming sounds, at the least.
‘I know you'll miss me when I die. That’s just how you are. I've seen you grieve for Mother and Father. You were held up for days by your emotions. Clinging to Mother's body, clutching Father's coat. Crying— all you did was cry yourself to sleep. That… I don't want it to happen again.’
Another snowflake melted in his palm. Yuichiro flexed his fingers, scowling at them. Scowling at the snow.
‘Something like me shouldn't be in your life. Something like me would only hold you back. I am nothing but grime dirtying your happiness. I’m just a— a wrong copy of you. I shouldn't have been born at all. It's a mistake, all of this is—! “Tokito Yuichiro” should never have…’
Tears flowed like a river from his strained eyes. Yuichiro hiccuped, holding his breath, so that he wouldn't wake Muichiro up. It felt like he was being stabbed. If his brother opened his eyes and saw this expression, he’d imagine the knife twisting even further. What was a little pain for him to save face?
‘Don’t grieve for me, don't even let me remain in your memory. Forget me, let my existence in your mind melt away like the snow.’
The more he spoke, the more his voice shook. Yuichiro stopped playing with the snowflakes, and brought his hand to caress the back of his little brother's head.
Yuichiro felt that what he said was justified. It made sense, it was right. But why— why was he crying? Why did it pain him to pronounce every syllable? Why was there a small, indistinguishable voice in his head begging for his wish not to be granted?
‘I’m sorry for being selfish. Let me be more selfish. Muichiro, I hope that you'll forget me when I die. Forget me, and feel peace again. Forget me— and—’
His throat was dry from holding in sobs. Yuichiro was unable to utter anything else. He continued weeping silently until he fell asleep from exhaustion. The early sunlight peeked through the window.
Winter will soon pass. The snow will disappear into the earth, carrying with it all the pain and harm that have accumulated throughout the year. Making way for spring, for renewal, for something beautiful. Happiness shall be unearthed.
Yuichiro hoped that this year, the winter would bring him along, too.