A Fox’s Winter Promise

Yuki lay half-hidden in the trees, his white fur blending into the powdered snow. His three tails, thick and full like painter’s brushes, flicked idle patterns as he watched the young woman. Snow clung to her blonde hair, damp and heavy, as she shivered beneath the shelter of an abandoned bus stop.

She tapped at the weathered Japanese notice board, muttering curses as she glanced at her watch. The sun dipped toward the horizon, stretching long shadows through the conifers. Something tightened low in Yuki’s chest, an urge he did not invite. The tall trees of Annupuri Mori were no place for mortals at night—especially those who had lost their way.

He rose onto all fours and shook, sending a cascade of snow drifting like ghostly petals into the creeping twilight. His slitted eyes never left her as he moved toward the forest’s edge. A pressure settled behind his ribs, familiar and unwelcome. He had warned his youngest sister against mortals, foreign ones in particular. She was now in Okinawa, sharing meals with a man. Yet here stood another human, unaware of the forest’s quiet dangers.

The woman grabbed her bag and her skis, hesitating as she eyed the trees. Yuki’s shoulders tensed. He would help her—only enough to guide her safely onto the path, away from the forest’s heart.

He lifted his head, letting a single green leaf settle against his temple. Rising onto his hind legs, he stilled, and the forest answered. Shadows loosened from the trees and folded around him like dark cloth, clinging until his shape softened and shifted beneath their weight.

When they withdrew, the world was left with a young man— his hair was whiter than the falling snow, catching light that seemed foreign to twilight. A kimono draped his shoulders, patterned with playful snowflakes—as though winter itself had chosen his attire.

His ears twitched at the crunch of boots against packed snow. He stepped forward, silent and traceless, lingering just beyond her perception—close enough that she might feel him without knowing why.

Her back straightened. She turned—and stumbled, catching on uneven snow and falling with a sharp crunch and clatter of skis. Yuki suppressed a laugh, covering his mouth, allowing only the corners of his smile to betray him.

“驚かせてしまったな。怪我はないか？” his voice formal, archaic.

(I have startled you. Are you unharmed?)

As she looked up at him, something tugged again, sharper this time, her cheeks flushed from more than the cold. “Sorry… I, uh, I don’t speak Japanese,” she said, her vowels rounded with the soft lilt of Ontario.

Yuki offered his hand and bowed slightly. “Forgive me, madam. I did not wish to disturb your composure. Are you quite well?” His words carried the grace of a forgotten empire—measured, deliberate—softened by the faint curve of a vulpine smile.

Her eyes widened, taken aback. She studied his hand, as though weighing a question she did not voice, then reached out. He clasped her fingers and lifted her with the smooth certainty of a rising tide.

She found her footing. “Your accent… it’s…” Her lips searched for the thought.

“‘Fantastical?’” Yuki cocked his head, her hand still brushing his. “I acquired my English from a cousin across the sea—a mischievous gentleman, ever fond of his tricks.”

Her heartbeat fluttered against his awareness, even through the padding of her coat. “It’s so… old-fashioned.” She touched his elbow. “But I like it. I’m Erin.”

Yuki inclined his head. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Erin. Do you require assistance?” He took a subtle step back, as though distance alone might quiet what stirred beneath his calm.

“My students call me Miss Erin,” she said, brushing stray hairs behind her ear. “You can just call me Erin.”

Yuki retrieved her skis from the snow. “Then you may call me Yuki. Why are you out near the forest?”

She hoisted her bag onto her shoulders. “I was trying to catch the bus to the Niseko ski resort, but it’s over an hour late. I thought cutting through the woods would be faster.”

Twilight thickened, eyes seeming to gather among the trees. Every instinct urged him to draw closer, to shield, but he kept only a smile. “Permit me to escort you, Erin. The forest harbors its share of rogues—though I confess I may be one of them.”

“Please,” she said, pushing lightly against his shoulder but waiting all the same. “I worked on a reserve in northern Canada. I’ve dealt with polar bears. I’m not worried.”

“Then you are braver than most.” He glanced sideways at her. “Still, I would not have you think me one of those rogues… unless you prefer it so.” He winked, matching his steps to hers. Each footfall was silent, though the closeness between them spoke louder than sound.

Color bloomed across Erin’s cheeks. “Who are you?”

He tilted his head, lips curling. “A rapscallion, perhaps.” The word tasted of mischief, and with it came the memory of his sister—how he had scolded her for lingering with mortals, only to find himself doing the same.

Her giggle pulled something loose inside him, unfamiliar and warm. “You’re ridiculous—with your accent, your kimono, and your… white dyed hair.” Her gaze lingered on his eyes.

“I assure you, madam, my hair is quite natural. No dyes, alas.” He dipped his head, pausing as though the judgment of his kin might fall upon him. Then, with a sly inclination—close enough to suggest a nuzzle without touching—he let the sheen of his white hair catch the light.

She removed her glove and threaded her fingers through it. Yuki knew he should pull away. Instead, he leaned into her touch.

“Where do you live?” Her voice carried a fragile thread of hope.

He straightened, smoothing his hair back into place. “I keep a modest sake distillery here… and a small cottage tucked away in Sapporo.”

Her steps slowed, excitement brightening her expression. “Sapporo? That’s home for me too—I teach at an English school there.”

The woods whispered caution, but her eyes held him fast. He knew the line he should not cross—and stepped over it all the same. “Grant me your number, and I will show you how winter truly sings in Sapporo.”

“I would like that,” she said, her words melting the last traces of resistance in his chest.

He returned her skis, and she slipped away beneath the streetlights toward the resort.

Yuki remained where he was long after she was gone, his three tails stirring beneath his kimono, aware that the forest had noticed him hesitate.

He had become the very fool he once warned against.