Two a.m. My bike faithfully glides through the gentle trickle of snow. The only sounds are creaking pedals, my breathing, and my nose corralling its runaway snot with sharp intakes of cold air. Bamboo lines the deserted road on either side: fasting monks whose intentionally thin frames divulge the quiet beauty of patient consumption. Leaves dance without wind as the moist snow plays on their green.

Gears shift, squeaky brakes are applied. I lean my bike against a fence. A stone torii eyes my presence with stoic invitation; there is curiosity in that look, too. 

“Come, then,” the torii whispers. I wipe snow off my brow and walk between the large pillars, offering a wary glance to the stone lions indifferent to my passage. The forest steps are bordered with orange smears: lanterns. They are unlit, and in being so exaggerate the night.

My shoes crunch on gravel as I ascend. Despite the snow, the air, I am warm from the bike ride—and despite my warmth, my body, I erupt in goosebumps. I stop. Did I see it? Was that it? Snow curls up in my hair and calmly melts as my heart beats furiously against its ribbed cage. A moment passes, I decide to move forward, and the goosebumps say goodbye for now.

At the top of the stairs I am confronted with an image so beautiful that I forgive myself for failing its description. It is a shrine: decorated with snow, squatting on frozen ground cloaked in golden leaves, themselves draped in snowy garb. I have been here many times before, but never at night. I was warned against coming here at night because of what haunts the shrine. But now, my last night in this town, where I have lived for the past two months, I need to see it. The sound of the cleansing fountain beckons me, and my hands faithfully glide through the gentle trickle of water. Ice clings desperately to the dragonʼs basin as the artificial current threatens to evict it.

Purified, I stand in front of the shrine. I close my eyes. I donʼt know the protocols, the rituals, so I stand silently and reflect on what November and December mean to me. Time was too frightened to accompany me, and remained with my bike. 

When I open my eyes, I expect to see an ethereal effigy. I expect it. Goosebumps arrive again, but without their previous immediacy; they are coming, one by one, to see what I am seeing, here under the moonʼs second-hand light, and I share it with them eagerly. 

I bike home, quietly slip inside, shed my clothes, and crawl into bed. Fuji-san sleeps on clouds for pillows, dreaming about what I might be up to, as I sleep on my pillow, cloudy dreams of Japanese countryside flitting through my mind. Iʼve said goodbye, to be forever haunted by the beauty that resides in that shrine.