Once a year, it snows. The snowflakes float on the taxi lights passing by on the boulevard. Open the window, the chilly air brushes my cheeks. A sign of downtown at night creeps into the dining room. An unexpected visitor, like the smell of pizza and French fries mixed with the heat of the bustle.

Steam blows up from drains. Ghosts in the past with red, green and orange flashing string lights hanging from their necks wander the pavements. I feel the humidity of the solitude they wear and I know the snow is turning to rain. Diamond dust can be seen dancing in the mirror. A deserted time.

Breakfast plates are empty. Yet the tables around town must be overflowing with the leftovers from glorious days. A knock on the vacancy door might reveal a taxidermy lion sleeping. The freeze-dried beast is full and dreaming of the twilight void. Next year it will snow again. Once a year is true.

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hiromi suzuki is a poet, fiction writer, artist living in Tokyo. Her writing has appeared in 3:AM Magazine, RIC journal, Berfrois, Minor Literature[s] and various literary journals on-line.