Snowfall in Nagano – Part 1: The Onsen Booking

The ryokan in the mountains above Nagano had sixteen rooms, a wooden bridge over a stream, and a receptionist who bowed so deeply when Yuki arrived that she worried he might fall over.

"Your room is ready," he said, sliding a key across the counter. "Please enjoy the onsen. It is very warm, and very quiet."

Her room was small and tatami-floored, with a low table, a view of the snow-covered pines, and a sliding door that opened onto a private balcony. She unpacked her notebook, her pens and her three half-written chapters, and sat down to work with a sigh of relief.

The receptionist called her an hour later, looking worried.

"Sumimasen," he said. "There has been a mistake. Your room was booked twice. We have given you the wrong room, with another guest. He is very polite. Would you like to move?"

Yuki peered down the corridor. There was no other room free. The inn was almost empty, the snow falling thick and soft outside, the lanterns lit along the path to the baths.

"Who is the other guest?" she asked.

"A photographer. He came for the snow. He will not be a problem."

"Then I'll stay," said Yuki. "But I'm taking the balcony side of the room, and he takes the window."

"He has already agreed," said the receptionist, with a small bow, and then bowed again, as if apologising to the mountains.

The other guest was in the room when she returned from dinner. He was sitting at the low table with a camera in his lap, sorting through photographs with careful fingers. He looked up when she slid the door open, and for a moment neither of them spoke.

He was tall, lean, with dark hair falling over his forehead and a stillness about him that made her think of the pines outside.

"You're the writer," he said, in careful English.

"You're the photographer."

"Ren," he said, and set the camera aside. "I'm sorry. The inn made a mistake. I'll sleep on the futon, if you like. I don't mind the floor."

"You're not sleeping on the floor," said Yuki, and then, more quietly, "I don't mind sharing, as long as we're honest about it."

He looked at her for a long moment. Then he smiled, slow and surprised, and she saw that his eyes were kind.

"Honesty is good," said Ren. "Shall we start?"

They sat across the low table with cups of green tea, and he showed her the photographs on his camera: the snowy pines at dawn, the stone lanterns buried in drifts, an old woman in a red coat feeding crows on the bridge. Each one was perfect, and quiet, and held something unsaid.

"These are beautiful," said Yuki.

"They're lonely," said Ren, quietly. "I think that's why I like them."

Yuki looked at him. The room was warm, the lamp throwing gentle shadows on the paper walls.

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

"Yes."

"Why are you here, really? Not for the snow."

He turned his cup slowly in his hands. "My father was a photographer too," he said. "He died last winter, in the mountains near here. I came to find the place where he took his last pictures."

Yuki's throat tightened. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," said Ren. "I wanted to say it out loud, in this room, to someone who wouldn't pity me."

"I don't pity you," said Yuki softly. "I admire you for coming."

He looked up, startled, and then smiled, warm and grateful.

"Can I ask you something back?" he said.

"Yes."

"Would you like to walk down to the onsen with me tonight? In the snow. Not as a favour to the inn. Just because it's very cold, and very quiet, and I'd like to see your face in the steam."

Yuki's heart gave a happy, unexpected thump.

"Yes," she said. "But you have to promise not to take a photograph of me in a towel."

"I promise," said Ren, grinning. "I'll only take photographs of the snow."

"Green?" she asked, teasing.

"Green," said Ren, and stood, and offered her his hand.