You are dreaming once again.
Once again, the darkness beyond that door in your little room stretches before you. Within that darkness stand all of those doors that connect you to mysterious spaces — whenever you dream, this is inevitably the first place you come to.
Perhaps you’ve gotten used to this place, as you don’t hesitate for even a second, instead boldly moving forward, stealthily opening one of the doors and peeking inside. If, while doing so, you get even the slightest hint of a frightening air about it, you quickly withdraw, then repeat this strange ritual.
You continue on this little pleasure stroll for some time until, finally, the contents of one particular door catch your interest.
It really isn’t in any particularly notable location, and the door has an utterly drab color scheme.
There isn’t the slightest hint of harshness. Instead, the door has a rather fairytale-esque quality to it, so you stare at it with deep curiosity, then gently push it open and step inside.
What awaits you therein is a snow blizzard.
It’s another expansive space — a silvery snowscape without a blemish to it, everything completely covered in snow.
Unlike the places inside the other doors, which are somewhat gloomy and reek of blood, this place is peaceful and joyful, overflowing with light reflecting off the snow.
You seem relieved by the sight and begin walking through the snow.
It’s a beautiful snow field, untainted by anyone else’s footsteps.
You walk about the wind-blown ruts made in the snow.
You open the red umbrella, which you seem to have taken a liking to, blocking out the onslaught of snow as you walk along. Your footsteps are light, meaning it might not be as cold as one would expect. Perhaps it’s because it’s a dream, so you just can’t feel hot and cold. The unexplained warmth you’ve experienced is likely something of your own creation.
You hop through the snow like a mountain hare.
Every now and then, you squat down, make a snowball, and throw it for no reason. You lose your balance and fall on your backside, getting covered in snow, but you seem to be enjoying yourself. The impact causes snow to fall from the branches on one of the trees, covering you in so much snow that you look like a snowman.
However, you continue carrying on like a little kid.
Reminiscent of a dog happily frolicking through the yard, something about snow seems to fill you with cheer. There’s a moderate sense of unreality, like everything ugly and dirty has been covered up... It’s the greatest of playthings, raining down from the heavens.
However, snow isn’t merely gentle fun. According to Dante’s The Divine Comedy, in the very depths of Hell, there exists the frozen circle of Cocytus: the furthest depths of despair.
The snow and the cold can snatch away body heat, steal life, and kill plants. Winter is like death, or rather, like sleep.
That’s why you shouldn’t set foot here — you should leave it a clear snowscape, untainted by footsteps and left only in the world of your memories.
The thick snow must surely be covering things you don’t wish to see.
You’re losing body heat, you’re going to be eaten away and frozen solid, all without you realizing it.
Or at least that should be the case, and yet you’re playing around like you’ve become a small child once more. Your footsteps still somehow manage to be light, even in this potentially disastrous blizzard.
Finally, amidst the fuzzy scenery, you happen upon something mysterious.
It’s like a cave made out of snow — what one might call a snow hut.
There are several of them, as far as your eyes can see, all grouped densely together.
The human mind remembers much more than most people are aware of. Those things are packed away in tiny boxes and stored in the deepest depths of the heart. They are wrapped up with lovely paper, with handling warnings inscribed on them, but can be opened at will anytime.
Those huts are positioned here and there, the crystallization of those thoughts, those precious memories that have been stored away. All of them look warm — and though they are small, they look like treasure chests. You set foot in one of the snow huts in order to shield yourself from the blizzard.
You put your umbrella down, relieved.
Like the “Little Match Girl,” you curiously gaze about the hut, relaxing as happy memories begin to drift up all around you. Of course, you don’t seem to notice.
A younger version of you, losing yourself in playing with someone else. Getting tangled up in each other and falling over, playing around, and hopping all over like animal cubs. Playing house. Hide-and-go-seek. The swing set and slide — light flows all around you and lovely flowers blossom to life.
Such a sincere smile. The warmth of holding hands. That feeling of safety embraces you.
But those are just traces of a long-forgotten past.
Like the snow that has collected in your palm, they melt through your own warmth, evaporating into thin air.
You head for the next snow hut, as if you’ve gone cold and are in search of a new source of warmth. You repeat this process over and over, vicariously experiencing sweet and nostalgic days.
You enter another snow hut with no hesitance, but then freeze solid in place.
There is a lone girl.
It’s so rare in your dreams to see someone else with the form of a completely normal human being. Whenever other people show up in your dreams, they’re often simply replays of past memories, or sometimes metaphors for something else. So which is it this time?
The girl is slumped forward with her knees pulled up to her chest, somehow fast asleep. She doesn’t react, let alone move even an inch when you approach her. She’s completely embedded within you. Perfectly and carefully preserved, just like a jewel.
This girl looks a lot like you. However, she’s pretty young. She’s like you, when you were a little girl. Your pure-hearted, innocent self, the self that would roll around and play in the snow, seems to be sleeping here.
You’ve tucked away your happy childhood for safe-keeping.
You’ve put it to sleep and sealed it away.
You gently approach the girl curled up on the ground, like someone naturally lured by the warmth of a fireplace or woodstove on a cold night.
Don’t do it.
You mustn’t awaken the sleeping child.
If you wake her, then you’ll have to come face-to-face with reality. You’ll have to go back to living. All of those painful things, all of that suffering, that sadness, your body, slashed and bloodied. If you stay asleep, you can keep enjoying yourself, keep being a kid — living that way is much better.
Your hand softly brushes the sleeping girl’s shoulder.
All of a sudden, you spin around, as if having sensed someone nearby.
Something is standing in the doorway, their form outlined with the backdrop of the blizzard.
It’s a little girl — so small that you could carry her in your arms.
She appears in a white kimono, the type people are buried in. Her mysterious blue hair serves as proof that she isn’t human. She looks a lot like the type of doll a child would use for playing house.
Tilting your head, you approach her.
You reach out your hand in an attempt to grab the unrealistic, fairy-like creature.
However, the blue-haired doll slips out of your grasp and runs away. It puts distance between you, as if afraid. You chase after it.
Back out in the blizzard, you scoop up the doll that can’t move as quickly as you can and embrace it, pressing it into your chest.
The doll does not try to resist, instead becoming docile.
A small child will refuse to part with a blanket or a doll that bears their own scent. Even after one becomes an adult, though they might pack the object away in a storage room, they cannot bear to throw it away. If the precious blanket or doll is thrown away by a heartless parent, it can bring a great deal of sadness to the child.
It’s like the doll is a crystallization of your joyous childhood memories or the pure feelings of love you felt for a friend. And so, you hold it close.
Having chased the doll through the snow, you’re now so far away from the snow hut that you can’t see it anymore. With each breath you exhale a burst of white, standing stock-still with a pained expression.
The doll in your hands is slowly falling apart. Like a yuki-onna, a snow woman, melting away after being thoroughly loved. The doll melts like snow into water, against your flesh which is warm from running around, but it calms you. It makes you feel at ease.
However, even though the doll vanished, you find yourself full of energy, as if the doll left you with something, something precious — like courage.
You delicately cradle the lingering traces of your little friend.