legato in a smooth, even style without any noticeable break between the notes
Light wakes in the night to find a different quality in the light filtering into his room. He's half-asleep, still, and bleary-eyed, but he goes to his balcony window and pulls back the curtain.
It's snowing.
He blinks at the sky, shaking off his sleepiness. There's not much snow in Tokyo. It's a shame, since he rather likes it, at least until people step on it and drive over it and ruin it. But it's the middle of the night now, and even from inside his room he can tell that it's still and quiet outside. No one's touched the snow yet. It's all his.
He runs to the bathroom as quietly as he can, and gets two towels. One of them he leaves on his bed, but the other he spreads on the floor just inside the door to his balcony. He slips on a pair of socks, and slides open the door.
A bit of the snow on the balcony falls in onto the towel, just as he thought it would. With a small smile, he steps out into the cold and closes the door behind him.
The snow under his feet melts, soaking through his socks and making him shiver, but he still carries the warmth of his bed with him, and it'll last for a bit longer. He stands still, enveloped in the silence of the night, staring up at the falling flakes of snow. Some of them land in his hair, some of them on his eyelashes, some in his outstretched hand. These melt immediately. Others, luckier, fall to the ground.
It's the closest thing to peace he can remember experiencing. His thoughts don't stop—that won't ever happen, he expects, and it's probably for the best—but his mind's workings are muted to susurrations that flutter to the bottom of his consciousness. The stillness of the night fills his mind and he lets it.
A car door slams, somewhere down the street. Light starts. Suddenly his mind is full of the sound of his thoughts again, and he realizes that he's cold. He won't get sick from cold alone, he knows, but cold depresses the immune system, and he's a child, more susceptible to illness than adults. With regret, he steps back into his room and slips off his wet socks, tossing them in the hamper as he towels the water from his hair.
The next morning, Sachiko sees the indentations of his footprints on the balcony and scolds him for standing out in the cold. He murmurs reassurances, not paying much attention. Outside, the snow on the sidewalk is already dirty.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This chapter is sort of happy. A rarity! As for the theme, light snowfalls sort of remind me of the idea of legato...? Gliding and elegant, yes? Keep in mind that I come from an area with almost no snow.