The Summer Festival That Came Back in Winter

The first fireworks appeared on December 18.

I know because I was standing outside the convenience store at 10:43 p.m., holding a bag of instant noodles and wondering whether I was too tired to cook.

It was freezing.

My breath floated in front of my face.

The streets were empty.

Then—

BOOM.

I looked up.

A red firework exploded above the town.

For a moment, I thought I had imagined it.

Then another appeared.

BOOM.

Blue.

Then gold.

Then green.

I checked my phone.

December 18.

Not July.

Not August.

December.

There should have been Christmas lights.

There should have been cold rain.

There should not have been fireworks.

I went home.

I decided not to think about it.

That was my second mistake.

The next morning, there was a smell of grilled corn outside my apartment.

I opened the window.

A row of red lanterns hung along the street.

They had not been there the night before.

Children were walking to school wearing winter coats.

Nobody seemed surprised.

I called my friend, Kenji.

“Did you see the fireworks last night?”

There was a long silence.

Then he laughed.

“Yeah.”

“You're not surprised?”

“It's probably some event.”

“In December?”

Another silence.

“Maybe they changed the schedule.”

That explanation was ridiculous.

But it was comfortable.

People will accept almost any explanation if the alternative is admitting that something impossible is happening.

By lunchtime, the town had changed.

Food stalls had appeared near the river.

Goldfish bowls sat on tables.

Someone was selling shaved ice.

A small stage had been built beside the shrine.

And hanging from the trees were hundreds of strips of colored paper.

Tanabata wishes.

I walked closer.

People were writing wishes and tying them to bamboo branches.

A woman beside me smiled.

“Beautiful, isn't it?”

“It's December,” I said.

She looked at me as if I had made a strange joke.

“Is it?”

I looked at my phone.

December 19.

I showed her.

She stared at the screen.

Then she smiled again.

“Oh.”

And walked away.

That frightened me more than anything else.

That evening, I went to the shrine.

I don't know why.

Maybe I wanted an explanation.

Maybe I wanted someone to tell me this was all a prank.

Or maybe I already knew why I was going.

Three years earlier, my younger sister, Mika, had disappeared during the summer festival.

She was seventeen.

She had gone to buy shaved ice.

She never came back.

The police searched for weeks.

Nothing.

No body.

No message.

No explanation.

Eventually, everyone stopped talking about her.

Everyone except me.

And now the summer festival had returned.

In December.

At the shrine, I saw something hanging from a bamboo branch.

A small piece of pink paper.

My hands began to shake.

I knew the handwriting.

I want to go home.

Mika.

I tore the paper from the branch.

The festival lights suddenly went out.

Every single one.

The town became completely dark.

Then I heard footsteps behind me.

Slow.

Soft.

Familiar.

I turned around.

Mika was standing at the entrance to the shrine.

She looked exactly as she had three years ago.

Same coat.

Same hair.

Same small smile.

She was seventeen.

I was twenty-three.

And somehow, in that moment, I knew something was terribly wrong.

“You're late,” she said.

I couldn't speak.

“You promised you'd come.”

“I've been looking for you.”

She smiled.

“I know.”

Behind her, the fireworks began again.

BOOM.

The sky turned red.

BOOM.

Gold.

BOOM.

Blue.

She held out her hand.

“Come on.”

I took one step forward.

Then I stopped.

Because I remembered something.

The summer festival three years ago had been on August 3.

Mika disappeared at 8:17 p.m.

And the last photograph of her had been taken at 8:16.

She had been wearing a blue yukata.

But the girl standing in front of me was wearing the same winter coat she had worn to school that morning.

The morning she disappeared.

I looked at her.

“You aren't Mika.”

Her smile disappeared.

For the first time, she looked angry.

The fireworks stopped.

The festival music stopped.

Even the wind stopped.

Then hundreds of voices whispered from the darkness.

“She came back for you.”

I ran.

I don't remember how I got home.

The next morning, the town was normal.

No lanterns.

No food stalls.

No bamboo.

No fireworks.

December had returned.

Everyone acted as if nothing had happened.

I almost convinced myself that I had dreamed it.

Then I found something in my coat pocket.

A strip of pink paper.

My sister's handwriting.

There was only one sentence.

You were always the one who wanted me to come home.

I kept the paper.

I don't know why.

Maybe because some part of me still hoped it was really her.

Maybe because grief makes us do strange things.

The summer festival never returned.

Not in December.

Not in July.

Not ever.

But every year, on December 18, I leave my apartment before midnight.

I walk to the river.

I stand beneath the winter sky.

And I wait.

Because I finally understand something.

The festival didn't return because it was the wrong season.

It returned because I was finally ready to see it.

And if the fireworks appear again someday—

I don't think I'll run.

Even if I know what is waiting for me.